The Leaden Carousel
This one’s called Iron Horse, born to lose.
Lemmy
They talked – I believed, about a shot into the night light, buckshot that instantly untangled some wires on power lines, about sparkling confetti of the blaze and traces of gunpowder among burgeoning sparrow-size snowflakes. This is what I found in the witnesses’ words, ready both to lie and to retract what they said, for the sake of nicer tales about him, who has always been from tales, about whom one could always say anything, which is as true as anything else. They said he’d been standing there for long, in the street of a national hero whose grandson managed an inn where people stopped by on their way from the railway station, they didn’t say, but I know he had two pairs of woolen socks (an old woman always gave
