June, July, all through the warm months she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone. - Truman Capote

But there were moments when she played songs that made you wonder where she learned them, where indeed she came from. Harsh-tender wandering tunes with words that smacked of pinewoods or prairie. One went: Don’t wanna sleep, Don’t wanna die, Just wanna go a-travelin’ through the pastures of the sky; and this one seemed to gratify her the most, for often she continued it long after her hair hard dried, after the sun had gone and there were lighted windows in the dusk.

Those fellows, they're always crying over killers. Never a thought for the victims.

Here is a hall without exit, a tunnel without end.