Faulkner's False Spring

Decent Essays
False Spring The drawings which his hands spread over the dust-growing table drowsed inside the camphor-smelling drawers of an expired winter. When slack time leaves midday across the sun-oozing afternoon, the writer, hence, sweeps the residues which the wind and three transpiring weeks piled over the gate. And, this mental project, whose phrases drift on a limited terrestrial space, swings in repetitious movement. His mind, nevertheless, professes a penchant to work in his present improper place. Thus, these uncongenial environs hold his soul in the calloused embrace of their own picture. Their loquacious lips, moreover, decry his dream of the end that shall sentence their lost intimate figures. This friend, however, arrives; and the
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