@@@@@Ah cain't take a leak easy, and mah back
@@@@@Ah cain't take a leak easy, and mah back hurts, and Ah gets the cramps sometimes Wilson snapped his fingers deprecatingly"It's a hell of a note, RedYou take somethin' like lovin', it's so nice and warm and you get to feelin' like jelly, an' then it ends up ru'nin' your insidesAh cain't understand it, Ah tell ya Ah think that man is wrongAh'm sick counta somepin elseLovin' ain't goin' to hurt a man
"It can," Red said
"Well, there's somepin all fugged up, that's all Ah can sayIt jus' don' make sense for a good thin' like that to end up hurtin' ya"Red, Ah swear the whole thing is confusin' as hell They walked back to their tents


The Time Machine:
WOODROW WILSON
THE INVINCIBLE

He was a big man about thirty with a fine mane of golden-brown hair and a healthy ruddy spacious face whose large features were formed cleanlyIncongruously, he wore a pair of round silver-rimmed glasses which gave him at first glance a studious or, at least, a methodical appearance"With all the gals Ah've had, Ah'll never forget that little old piece," he said, wiping the back of his hand against his high sculptured forehead, sliding it up over his golden pompadour

Clichés like lazy decadence, death and disease, monotony and violence, well up in your mindThe main street has assumed its tawdry prosperity with discomfort; it is hot and packed with people and the stores are small and dirtyLanguid and feverish, the girls walk by on thin legs, with painted faces, staring at the movie houses with gaudy placards, picking at the sore on their chin, squinting with their pale insolent eyes as the sun glares on the dirty asphalt and models the dust-filled pores of the trampled papers underfoot
A hundred yards away the back streets are green and lovely, and the foliage of the trees meets overheadThe houses are old and pleasant; you cross a bridge and look down on a tiny stream winding and twisting gently over some soft rounded rocks; there are the sounds of things growing and the soughing of the leaves in the swollen torpid May breezeA little farther on, there is always the small rotting mansion with its broken shutters, its peeling columns, and the dull black-gray of its walls like a tooth after the nerve has been killedThe mansion alters the loveliness of the streets, limns it with darker mortal lines
The grass enclosure in the center of the town square is deserted, and the statue of General Jackson stands on its pedestal and looks with calculation at the cannon balls pyramided in cement, the old cannon whose breech is missingBehind him the Negro quarter stretches out along the sandy roads into the farm lands
There, in the black ghetto, the shacks and two-room shanties sag on their stilts, the wood dry and splintered and dead, the rats and roaches scurrying across the sapless plank