It was by now the Christmastime there. The brethren had succumbed to a period of sodden reminiscence. This was no astonishment to them. They mourned for lost voices and lost youth. They crossed the ocean again in their trembling dreams. Those with the hand for it wrote torrential letters home. They remembered fucking everything. They remembered the rocks they’d sat on along the sides of the hungry hills. They remembered the dogs of particular streets. The girls with eyes of wren’s-egg blue. The summer nights obliterated in the fields. They chased their whiskey with beer. From the mountain they
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