I Suppose I'm A Lapsed Catholic. You

Do Dead Man Dream? The Dead Themselves Are Silent On The Matter

The Pale Pink Light Of Dawn Sparkled On Branch And Leaf And Stone. Every Blade Of Grass Was Carved From Emerald, Every Drip Of Water Turned To Diamond. Flowers And Mushrooms Alike Wore Coats Of Glass. Even The Mud Puddles Had A Bright Brown Sheen. Through The Shimmering Greenery, The Black Tents Of His Brothers Were Encased In A Fine Glaze Of Ice. So There Is Magic Beyond The Wall After All.

My Featherbed Is Deep And Soft, And There I’ll Lay You Down, I’ll Dress You All In Yellow Silk And On Your Head A Crown. For You Shall Be My Lady Love, And I Shall Be Your Lord. I’ll Always Keep You Warm And Safe, And Guard You With My Sword. And How She Smiled And How She Laughed, The Maiden Of The Tree. She Spun Away And Said To Him, No Featherbed For Me. I’ll Wear A Gown Of Golden Leaves, And Bind My Hair With Grass, But You Can Be My Forest Love, And Me Your Forest Lass.

Pyp Had Stabbed A Turnip With His Knife. "the Night Is Dark And Full Of Turnips," He Announced In A Solemn Voice. "let Us All Pray For Venison, My Children, With Some Onions And A Bit Of Tasty Gravy.

I'm Fond Of All My Characters So Every Time One Doesn't Make The Cut I'm A Little Disappointed Although I Understand It.