November, the life once ledninfecter slips away subdued. Burynthe ash in the Bronx (Ms. MarynMallon) so only memories maynremain whilst endured throughninfamy. But if conditions werensimple as being the way we appearnwe would not have known the namenof bearer and aid in the expansenof fierce disease. Disharmonyn'tween the way which she appearednand the malaise she caused throughna cause. From the shorelines ofngreat rolling greens, fromnpressured tumultuous life theyncame 'cross waters chance thatnthey'd just be. So had she, hadnMary 14. Turning the century shenhad found purpose in deliveringnfouled sustenance house-cookingnbut twenty-two infections broughtnlight to patterns, grounds fornisolation set, executed andnrecalled should sickness never benspread through such means again.nBut passionate paths rarelynredirect thus quarantine wouldnremain life quarters until fadingndays. No soul would have asked fornsuch despairing fate. We can'tndeny, can't deny she'd be rueful.nNo, it was a birth right she wouldnnot outlive. As they said and theynsaid and they said she was deathnshe'd speak out but she would notnoutlive. No matter how much shenwished she'd simply be this is hownshe'd exist.
Columbella
Today I Caught the Plague
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