elegaic Q Elegaic She, it was a she, was so cold and so covered, yes, by struggle of my furrowing head, back and hands with a lumpy, scratchy undercarriage rug. It might have been, perhaps, softer, smoother, more elegant. Yes, it should have been - a blanket, dull black. No warmth. No coldly confused contrapositives. That hard, long ago, do not care, is true, right here too. Lumps I would not take back. Scratches though I could never leave exposed: Always be well, and do well, and well, and well, and well, and well. All, I've begged and do, without any special heed for the trumpet she picked out, that will blare and blare, here and there, bleu, blanc, rouge, chicago and everwhere, without the horn being, as it has not been, on any in particular and with my mind, heart and that timessome on some another(s), without a cover of any texture, any color or none, any heat or none, contra or positive, being dredged up ever again. C 2000 000828 what's it to you? who go blather from