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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 212 can't seem to steer my boat away from the treacherous rocks out to the Open Sea. However, if I am not too soon smashed, or drowned, I may become a better sailor. Sien and The Crab . . . This crab that gnaws your flesh gnaws mine, Bete Noir, abhorred, like Phoenix burning behind my brain a bloody whine: "Your death shall surely be my dying!" Sien is dead. Her husband asks me to her funeral. I don't want to go, I really dislike funerals. "You don't have to go, you know," says Mark. "I know." But I go. And all through the service I feel like it is me they are burying. The coffin blooms in its bower of flowers and sends up a sweet sepulchral perfume. The faces of the people around me are stiff and strange. There is no one here I really |