I would that you were my own. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. “It has all been a mistake, hasn’t it?” “No more talking,” the doctor interposed. "No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. It'll be your turn to save mine next. Burn your palette and your easel.
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