Lee Harvey Oswald could be heard reading Hemingway's
"The Killers" in English to some Russian students:
an old wire recording which had haphazardly survived
and needed no decoding.

It was better than hearing a famous actor read the story,
it was actually kind of chilling, not fun, spooky
like the word "eventually" feels like the wind sounds
sometimes, like tonight when I meant to leave the office
early but have lingered like the snow falling under the
streetlight. 

I bought (my parents bought) a very white jacket when I
was in the third grade; it seemed extremely special and
one of a kind. The jacket wasn't corduroy but had ridges
almost like corduroy. But even by third grade I must
not have been making another kind of grade, because I could
not bring myself to wear the jacket to school, or even
around my neighborhood. The jacket was so special I thought
I would receive some kind of unwarranted attention, unwanted
attention; the jacket would be ruined not literally but in
some figurative fashion.

But who was kidding whom — I was afraid the jacket would be
torn and smeared by someone or someones, and I would be
smeared or smashed for wearing it. 

At the same time I didn't keep the jacket in a special place,
nor did I visit it secretly. The jacket didn't even get to
experience what "secretly" would be like. It just stayed in
an embarrassed place, as if betrayed by a friend or a face or
a has-been.