OCR Text |
Show Later, hours past midnight, when the bells start again and, ringing death, draw you from your bed in the dark you seem shaken by the news; you make your voice tremble then, slowly you lay the black bone back in its cradle and have a good hard laugh! You say: Ah, telephone, old ventriloquist, you've learned so many of the voices I love. How far away you make them seem! You could almost make me believe this wire in my hand truly stretches those thousands of miles to within an inch of their lips. Such good stories you tell. By now, I could almost love you, your cold black muzzle pressed against my ear about to whisper. |