How, Unless You Drink As I Do,

How Alike Are The Groans Of Love To Those Of The Dying.

Good God, If Our Civilization Were To Sober Up For A Couple Of Days It'd Die Of Remorse On The Third.

Perhaps His Tragedy Is That He Is The One Normal Writer Left On Earth And It Is This That Adds To His Isolation And So To His Sense Of Guilt.

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.

How Shall The Murdered Man Convince His Assassin He Will Not Haunt Him.