I Was Wandering Around As Usual, In

Only The Margin Left To Write On Now. I Love You, I Love You, I Love You.

I Know All About The Facts Of Life, And I Don't Think Much Of Them.

They Call Them The Haunted Shores, These Stretches Of Devonshire And Cornwall And Ireland Which Rear Up Against The Westward Ocean. Mists Gather Here, And Sea Fog, And Eerie Stories. That's Not Because There Are More Ghosts Here Than In Other Places, Mind You. It's Just That People Who Live Hereabouts Are Strangely Aware Of Them.

People's Clothes Ought To Be Buried With Them.

Truthfulness So Often Goes With Ruthlessness.