But we are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other. so fierce is the world's ridicule we cannot speak or show our tenderness. for us, death is stronger than life, it pulls like a wind through the dark, all our cries burlesqued in joyless laughter. and with the garbage of loneliness stuffed down us until our guts burst bleeding green, we go screaming round the world, dying in our rented rooms, nightmare hotels, eternal homes of the transient heart.
Rating 4.56 em 5(9 Votes)
Author: Truman Capote