How Shall The Murdered Man Convince His

The Howling Pariah Dogs, The Cocks That Herald Dawn All Night, The Drumming, The Moaning That Will Be Found Later White Plumage Huddled On Telegraph Wires In Back Gardens Or Fowl Roosting In Apple Trees, The Eternal Sorrow That Never Sleeps Of Great Mexico.

In The War To Come Correspondents Would Assume Unheard Of Importance, Plunging Through Flame To Feed The Public Its Little Gobbets Of Dehydrated Excrement.

What I Have Absolutely No Sympathy With Is The Legislator, The Man Who Seeks, For His Own Profit, To Exploit The Weaknesses Of Those Who Are Unable To Help Themselves And Then To Fasten Some Moral Superscription Upon It. This I Loathe So Much That I Cannot Conceivably Explain How Much It Is.

No, My Secrets Are Of The Grave And Must Be Kept. And This Is How I Sometimes Think Of Myself, As A Great Explorer Who Has Discovered Some Extraordinary Land From Which He Can Never Return To Give His Knowledge To The World: But The Name Of This Land Is Hell.

How, Unless You Drink As I Do, Could You Hope To Understand The Beauty Of An Old Indian Woman Playing Dominoes With A Chicken?