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Show Acting Alone Page 55 stopped distinguishing between speech and thought in the Wamsutter yamgarden back in Kiev. And he was starting to feel especially tired now. Heavy arms, light head, he must've been babbling. He wanted to tell her not to be scared: not only psychotics talk in tongues; very tired people do, too. Instead he just mumbled, "Sorry." He focused on her beautiful face for a moment, and realized in a flash how inaccessible she really was. Just another inaccessible, blithe woman tantalizing him. Why had he worked up the balls in the first place to ask this woman to bring him here when he could've stayed upstairs being moony-oogly over the Poes and titllating his mind with the awful possibility of the reentry of Elder Cicerone into his life? Had Sam arranged this tour just for the possibile acquisition of more literary carrion, such as these peculiar nuns' undies strung all around his head? There were long slips with pockets reachable only through discreet slits in pocketless habits; long-legged laceless briefs; neckerchiefs with laundry numbers sewn or even embroidered on; strings of far fewer bras than nuns; and honest-to-pete union suits, presumably worn on some unspecified, unimaginable special occasion - not a single petroleum product in the lot. Sam could've sworn he saw a complete set of personal linen with certain Li'l Abner characters crawling on them like crablice. Little aspirants scampered around his knees like black elves, starching the collars of final profess sisters, being careful not to get red on the endless whiteness before them when the skin on their babyish hands stiffened, cracked and bled. Useless as this information may have seemed now, how many non-Catho- |
