Lunatics Have No Age. If We Were

A Poetess Who Had Died Young Of Cancer Had Said In One Of Her Poems That For Her, On Sleepless Nights, 'the Night Offers Toads And Black Dogs And Corpses Of The Drowned.

Now, Even More Than The Evening Before, He Could Think Of No One With Whom To Compare Her. She Had Become Absolute, Beyond Comparison. She Had Become Decision And Fate.

But, Drawn To Her At That Moment, He Felt A Quiet Like The Voice Of The Rain Flow Over Him. He Knew Well Enough That For Her It Was In Fact No Waste Of Effort, But Somehow The Final Determination That It Was Had The Effect Of Distilling And Purifying The Woman's Existence.

The True Joy Of A Moonlit Night Is Something We No Longer Understand. Only The Men Of Old, When There Were No Lights, Could Understand The True Joy Of A Moonlit Night.

Because You Cannot See Him, God Is Everywhere.