The time comes to go deeper into self and the time comes when it is more innocent or easier to die like bombers over Santa Monica, and I remember laying there in the sand, myself 20 years old, reading Faulkner because the name sounded good and being vaguely excited by something that was not myself and closing the book and getting sick of the sea and the sky blue blue blue spots of white, all dizzy in the trap, wanting out but knowing I was nailed like sand-fleas I slapped at, and Mr. Faulkner laying on his side immortal and burning with my toes and everything tilting and not quite true.
To the point, not a wasted word, perfect.
William Faulkners grave is just through a patch of woods about 1/4 mile from my home in Oxford, Mississippi. His old house Rowan Oak is across the square. So yeah this has meaning to me personally.