by Mina Odile
The next day, the usual rags ran bloody eager by the subway mouth and, trampled in the gutter, still folded, showed headlines muddied by soles, ran SENSELESS for a quick grab, commute, and toss, as every New York morning.
Well might you ask if senseless means there’s sometime death more meaningful. To which I’ve no reply, as senseless’nt quite cut it either by my thinking, nor never do I see the sense in it, all told, ’til what I’m finding’s neither more or less than meaningless—there, now it’s out, damn dot and done with it. As all I know is how I like to be toddling up to the lioned library round about 10.14, so sitting long the length of one in many wooded tables, and there to read the murders.