Lingering Is So Very Lonely When One

Each Day I Live In A Glass Room Unless I Break It With The Thrusting Of My Senses And Pass Through The Splintered Walls To The Great Landscape.

For Death Is Life. It Is Only Living That Is Lifeless.

I Am The Wilderness Lost In Man.

The Moon Slid Inexorably Into Its Zenith, The Shadows Shrivelling To The Feet Of All That Cast Them, And As Rantel Approached The Hollow At The Hem Of The Twisted Woods He Was Treading In A Pool Of His Own Midnight.

What Is Time... That You Speak Of It So Subserviently? Are We To Be The Slaves Of The Sun, That Second-hand, Overrated Knob Of Gilt, Or Of His Sister, That Fatuous Circle Of Silver Paper? A Curse Upon Their Ridiculous Dictatorship!