Hello. I want thine ears, though know I not who I am.
Hello. Let me be done with cliches of the sort is thy mind to hope for in anticipation of my femininity. So I genuflect on my right knee, may I bow on my left now?
You have me down on the marmoreal marble of this place - "your" house;
you have my tears on the bed linen of the bedsheets art that owned by thine affluence - alas! How would I sleep if you had woven the white voile on my blanket with your fingers? Nails have ingrown the skin on their ends. Do you see them?;
but there sauntered my feet not in an esplanade, though with music painful and sweet - I was walking on a heavenly tightrope on the dead cement of your ceiling.
Oh mother, I just said. Were you listening?
Oh alas! No mother, no! Forbear! Do not speak.
Heard you not I know; it was just another miss.
I will take it as that. May you smile wide, won't you?

Which time is it? Which number exactly that I, your erstwhile daughter, am here again?
What hour is this that can my watch not read? Oops! Am I out of time? Carelessness of mine will kiss the place am I at; may I dwell as well in a limbo if my Lord hates me now. Care I not but for when I lost myself?
You see, I heard your pendulum strike the sixth hour of the evening, and not the Angelus.
It is not easy. I am solving your math mother. Give me...