Page 16

Sightseer Beginning. We were born. Stiff paper airplane hats went about turning out the lights. Our white sheets were startched enough to creak. The nuns had button up startched wings for breasts too. But we knew the rub of their tight stitch went through cloth. A more gathering embrace had Hollywood movie queens giving donations for our long lost upkeep. While through his unrelinquishing lack of a grin, our swirling an orphanage unconscious had the directive man in view as a warden with a collar. He was the one who came in wearing worry over his face. Consequently his adherents could conceive of our hospital being the center of a shocked Southern California Soddenly caught in a relagated fantasia of dread, spliced from with technics the cuts in taste projecting know only to device of film itself, then the reality of an Hawaiian war. But the deep transision into this world our brains were forced to make twice yet allowed a controled amusement as the collarman acted like a laymen when the actually tited magazine faces strolled along the inlaid tile through the rolling of the camera's underfoot. This man was not of the eternal duelity of our crossing shadows. But he was made conclusive that his business was of a higher cast then that of the namesake nuns who were still tying up the very center of their nights with newly decended saints. It seemed that the nuns were as numb as statues without blue paint, yet it was emphatic that their noses would always be streight.