becky the girl in western pensylvania who owes me a picture that she refuses to send a package a letter anything you can as long as it comes quickly he shouted as he crossed the busy intersection of truth and lies on the bed facedown as he reads the story of his life which is folded open like a brief wrinkle in time to go to the store his mother shouts and she anxiously knits like a fiend before the approaching winter snow lightly dust the furniture with a damp ragamuffin child with outstretched hands and a heart burning with passion to know the truth.
