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I am the same as the she sometimes, when I look back and see myself naked and stripped of soul. Its like I see a huge candle burning far away. As it burns I take the dripping wax and place it neatly below the flame. The flame must not die. But he wax must be placed to slow its descent. The flame flickers now and then in a sigh, when a large wind blows. But he candle towers above the world and the flame is strong enough to stay alive in mist of the elements. My nights are spent sleeping on the wind, but when it rains I awake and cup my hands above the flame, so that it will not frizzle away. I am protecting something that is not me, but is me, when the fire is no longer burning inside. O children of the world losing dreams, your mothers think they see. Will I ever know the reason why you belong together? O Michael, look, the apple tree. I see that day on the sweeter part of my memory. It lasts forever, for I never let it change its form. I can be delicate. I will touch a leaf. It is sticky on my fingers, and I will taste something bitter to remind me of where I am. The cry of birds is going empty and distant all around me. Maybe someday they will see a dream, in which I am truly flying. The moon has crawled beneath its own shadows and the sun has kissed the clouds. They are so full, but they will wait anouther day to open their meaning on the land, which is gone now. No, some things are still the same, but they too will be covered soon. God, Beverly Road, and Saint Bernards and the Hill, and Beaver and I running a speakeasy, and Cat Man and the Lincoln Bums, and Father Lonergan, and the pimps and the fine black ladies and Daniel and the little girl who was jealous because the party girl wore a lock on her belt. She waited for me two times, when I went away. She was so lovely, that I remember Lent as being sweet. Father Lonergan saw me walking with her hand in mine. He would smile, until he couldn't stand the beauty, and then turn away. She