Sepra swore she had always tried to do what was real and true. This made her worthy of morning bread and not hideous. Before she had swallowed her guts and parcled her vanity as etiquette she would skitter away from the sun which accosted her from time to time to kiss the rosary beads which hung like a miscarriage around her swollen hips. Hips much too large not to be obscene she remarked. Oh so they were, those hips of hers which swung like wrist watches and pendulum clocks--the men stared every quarter of an hour to check the time-- hips of mass which purged empty space and ripped its contents out onto the heels of her feet. The earth rippled and sang and moaned and cried and then died with one footstep of that Sepra.