Memory Sometimes Makes Merciful Deletions.

I Am Writing This Under An Appreciable Mental Strain, Since By Tonight I Shall Be No More. Penniless, And At The End Of My Supply Of The Drug Which Alone Makes Life Endurable, I Can Bear The Torture No Longer; And Shall Cast Myself From This Garret Window Into The Squalid Street Below.

I Am A Student Of Life, And Don't Want To Miss Any Experience. There's Poetry In This Sort Of Thing, You Know--or Perhaps You Don't Know, But It's All The Same.

The Sea Can Bind Us To Her Many Moods, Whispering To Us By The Subtle Token Of A Shadow Or A Gleam Upon The Waves, And Hinting In These Ways Of Her Mournfulness Or Rejoicing. Always She Is Remembering Old Things, And These Memories, Though We May Not Grasp Them, Are Imparted To Us, So That We Share Her Gaiety Or Remorse.

As Human Beings, Our Only Sensible Scale Of Values Is One Based On Lessening The Agony Of Existence.

West Of Arkham The Hills Rise Wild, And There Are Valleys With Deep Woods That No Axe Has Ever Cut.