I can see in your eyes, you’re a kind, giving man. You will be a fit father to the children. Raise them as your own, my dear sir. They will miss their mother, but please reassure them, I am in a better place. I fear they would not survive the journey I must undertake, for the Peter Pan bus is no place for a child, and my studio apartment in the East Village gets no light.

They are simple, unspoiled children. All they will require of you is but a sip of water, once every other week. That’s not too much to ask, is it, sir? My children are quiet and well-behaved. I promise, you won’t even know they’re there! I’m asking but a small pittance, just $15 dollars a wean. I can deliver them to your home if it’s too much trouble to pick them up. Just, please, take them! I can’t bear to leave my dear children outside or plant them in India Point Park.

I remember when they were but propagations. Their father and I, God rest his soul, found them as loose leaves on the floor of Jordan’s Jungle. Ah, my sweet babies! How they’ve grown! Remember me, my dears. For, though you may not be on my new apartment’s windowsill, I will carry you in my heart, always.