I Am Too Rich Already, For My

The Earth Swirls Down Through The Ominous Moons Of Preconsidered Generations.

His Was Not The Hatred That Arises Suddenly Like A Storm And As Suddenly Abates. It Was, Once The Initial Shock Of Anger And Pain Was Over, A Calculated Thing That Grew In A Bloodless Way.

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.

Seeing An Earl As An Owl On A Mantelpiece, And Having Part Of One's Face Removed By A Cat, Both On The Same Morning, Can Temporarily Undermine The Self-control Of Any Man.

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