How Pleasant,' Dona Said, Peeling Her Fruit;

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.

I Have No Talent For Making New Friends, But Oh Such Genius For Fidelity To Old Ones.

The Trouble Is, Walking In Venice Becomes Compulsive Once You Start. Just Over The Next Bridge, You Say, And Then The Next One Beckons.

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.

How Simple Life Becomes When Things Like Mirrors Are Forgotten.