But for once for now I think I want my voice to be heard.
It will come in the slow cracked hum of an old woman whose bitterness became fury with age. A lacy white innocuous pathetic even (that's what they'd think of her, wouldn't they?) bubbling under the surface with frothy heat. Not a lonely cantankerous old woman but possessed with a sort of psychosis, a schizophrenic delusion of grandeur pulled from the shape of a Dostoyevsky novel and crudely shaped into her own vaguely clever but most blatantly third-rate creaking stooped form.
