Unfinished Novel

Ah yes - they justify it all, the brats, hungry or asleep and gorged with milk. Each drop's (yes, the milk they drink is yours) another line unwritten, another page crumpled like a pufiball on the floor. Your limpid dialogue is reduced to the basic syllables of the cave and the quick infant minds grow huge, while you relearn vocabularies from the pram. The typewriter is now a battered toy, its ribbon has fingerprinted all the walls (cenotaphs for dead letters all its keys). You tap the heads assailing your broad lap and polarise regret and love them while the cunning offspring of your milk and blood root up the truffles of your mind.