It wasn’t much at first—
Something like a post horn
Sounding from a distance
Uncle History’s conscience
It wasn’t much
A slightest breeze
In his hair
A haunted house feeling
Dead leaves at his feet
“I’ve got to get out of this racket”
(He writes an old fashioned telegram)
“Facts soaked in blood” Stop
“Still feel good at heart” Stop
“Want good, hard unpolitical tears” Stop
“Will you rescue me?” Stop
He looks down
Sees his cord has been cut
Planet of the Blind 