It Wouldn't Make For Sanity Would It,

He Had The Face Of One Who Walks In His Sleep, And For A Wild Moment The Idea Came To Me That Perhaps He Was Not Normal, Not Altogether Sane. There Were People Who Had Trances, I Had Surely Heard Of Them, And They Followed Strange Laws Of Which We Could Know Nothing, They Obeyed The Tangled Orders Of Their Own Sub-conscious Minds. Perhaps He Was One Of Them, And Here We Were Within Six Feet Of Death.

We Are All Ghosts Of Yesterday, And The Phantom Of Tomorrow Awaits Us Alike In Sunshine Or In Shadow, Dimly Perceived At Times, Never Entirely Lost.

Writing Every Book Is Like A Purge; At The End Of It One Is Empty ... Like A Dry Shell On The Beach, Waiting For The Tide To Come In Again.

This House Sheltered Us, We Spoke, We Loved Within Those Walls. That Was Yesterday. To-day We Pass On, We See It No More, And We Are Different, Changed In Some Infinitesimal Way. We Can Never Be Quite The Same Again.

Life Was A Series Of Greetings And Farewells, One Was Always Saying Good-bye To Something, To Someone.