He Was Unheeded, Happy, And Near To

I Hear The Ruin Of All Space, Shattered Glass And Toppled Masonry, And Time One Livid Final Flame.

Imagine Some Foul And Putrid Corpse That Has Lain Rotting And Decomposing In The Grave, A Jelly-like Mass Of Liquid Corruption. Imagine Such A Corpse A Prey To Flames, Devoured By The Fire Of Burning Brimstone And Giving Off Dense Choking Fumes Of Nauseous Loathsome Decomposition. And Then Imagine This Sickening Stench, Multiplied A Millionfold And A Millionfold Again From The Millions Upon Millions Of Fetid Carcasses Massed Together In The Reeking Darkness, A Huge And Rotting Human Fungus. Imagine All This, And You Will Have Some Idea Of The Horror Of The Stench Of Hell.

Bury The Dead. Say Robinson Crusoe Was True To Life. Well Then Friday Buried Him. Every Friday Buries A Thursday If You Come To Look At It.

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

I Confess That I Do Not See What Good It Does To Fulminate Against The English Tyranny While The Roman Tyranny Occupies The Palace Of The Soul.