Mount And Begone. The World Awaits You.

This Tower, Patched Unevenly With Black Ivy, Arose Like A Mutilated Finger From Among The Fists Of Knuckled Masonry And Pointed Blasphemously At Heaven. At Night The Owls Made Of It An Echoing Throat; By Day It Stood Voiceless And Cast Its Long Shadow.

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.

I Am The Wilderness Lost In Man.

I Am Clever Enough To Know That I Am Clever.

The Crumbling Castle, Looming Among The Mists, Exhaled The Season, And Every Cold Stone Breathed It Out. The Tortured Trees By The Dark Lake Burned And Dripped, Their Leaves Snatched By The Wind Were Whirled In Wild Circles Through The Towers. The Clouds Mouldered As They Lay Coiled, Or Shifted Themselves Uneasily Upon The Stone Skyfield, Sending Up Wreathes That Drifted Through The Turrets And Swarmed Up Hidden Walls.