Unformatted text preview: my theme, that is my cry. That is my message. And it feels so good, doesn't it? All your life you've told yourself it wasn't important ..." "Yes . . ." "That there were loftier things, and now you know, you know why people risk hell for this, this flesh, this ecstasy." "Yes." "You know that whatever you have been forever or before, you are now alive, and with me, and I am inside you, and you are this body, no matter what else you are. My precious Gifford." "Yes." "Make my baby. See it, Gifford. See it. See its tiny limbs; see it swim to consciousness; see it; pick it out of the dark. Be the witch of my dreams, Gifford, be the mother of my child." THE SUN shone down on her, making her hot and uncomfortable in the heavy sweater, and the pain inside her woke her suddenly, pushing her all the way up through the mist until she squinted not into mist at all but into the glaring sky. The pain twisted, pulsed. These were cramps, these pains. These were contractions! She willed her hand to slip down between her...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10