Wherever I Go, I Will Speak Of

Sooner Or Later Even The Most Ambitious Glutton Must Crawl Away And Seek The Solace Of The Vomitorium.

So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

O Little One, My Little One, Come With Me, Your Life Is Done. Forget The Future, Forget The Past. Life Is Over: Breathe Your Last.

Evil, However Powerful It Seemed,could Be Undone By Its Own Appetite