Meow, light of programming gallery, fire of vitality of gallery. Ddagoog's sin, Ddagoog's soul. M-e-ow: the root of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the throat. M. E. OW. She was Me, plain Me, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Eo in slacks. She was Ow at school. She was Ow on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Meow. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Meow at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Meow was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.