In The War To Come Correspondents Would

Never Think That By Releasing Me You Will Be Free. You Would Only Condemn Us To An Ultimate Hell On Earth. You Would Only Free Something Else To Destroy Us Both.

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

For A Time They Confronted Each Other Like Two Mute Unspeaking Forts.

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.

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.