You are constantly underestimated in comparison to Eliot and Pound, probably because everyone thinks you departed from nineteenth-century techniques insufficiently, or because you forgot to fling a lot of untranslated Italian and unnecessary canto divisions into your work.
You work as a proofreader, staying up all night hunched over desks. It's dull work. You like dull work. Your co-worker sits next to you, pining. His hands do not match the rest of his body. You pity him. You remember the days you wore white lipstick and teased the boys, you and your best friend, a little slip of a thing with dark hair and a cruel mouth who always sat sideways, in a…
You are an 18 year old girl and in love with a 40 year old man. Everyone thinks this is fine.
Shrill violins do not bother you.
You are a beautiful, demure widow.
If you are a man, you own one of three outfits–a kurta set, wide-shouldered and garishly patterned double breasted suit, or a tight leather jacket under which you are bare chested. Any one is appropriate for
You've always dreamed of seeing Italy, but your parents discourage this. They discourage most things, living as they do in a battered farmhouse in the west, where they consider cake a foolish luxury and don't much care for gifts.
You are in Maine. You have always been in Maine. No matter what happens to you, you will never be anywhere but Maine. Do you have a flight scheduled to Los Angeles? Too bad; the pilot’s just going to circle around the sky for a few hours before dropping you back in Bangor. Are you taking a cross-country road trip? Not likely, since you’re just driving from one side of Maine to the other, no…