A young faun on the brink of a pool,
startled at himself? Yes, a little. Because Marylin's head always had a
listening look to it, as if for a message that never quite came through
to her. From where? Marylin didn't know and didn't know that she didn't
know. Probably that accounted for a little pucker that could sometimes
alight between her eyes. Scarcely a shadow, rather the shadow of a
shadow. A lute, played in a western breeze? Once a note of music,
not from a lute however, but played on a cheap harmonica, had caught
Marylin's heart in a little ecstasy of palpitations, but that doesn't
necessarily signify. Zephyr with Aurora playing? Laughter holding both
his sides?
How Marylin, had she understood it, would have kicked the high hat off
of such Miltonic phrasing. Ah, she was like--herself!
And yet, if there must be found a way to convey her to you more quickly,
let it be one to which Marylin herself would have dipped a bow.
She was like nothing so much as unto a whole two dollars' worth of
little five-cent toy balloons held captive in a sea breeze and tugging
toward some ozonic beyond in which they had never swum, yet strained so
naturally toward.
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