Boredom Is A Pleasing Antidote

All Whispers And Echoes From A Past That Is Gone Teem Into The Sleeper's Brain, And He Is With Them, And Part Of Them.

The Trouble Is, Walking In Venice Becomes Compulsive Once You Start. Just Over The Next Bridge, You Say, And Then The Next One Beckons.

A Bad Workman Blames His Tools.

He Had The Face Of One Who Walks In His Sleep, And For A Wild Moment The Idea Came To Me That Perhaps He Was Not Normal, Not Altogether Sane. There Were People Who Had Trances, I Had Surely Heard Of Them, And They Followed Strange Laws Of Which We Could Know Nothing, They Obeyed The Tangled Orders Of Their Own Sub-conscious Minds. Perhaps He Was One Of Them, And Here We Were Within Six Feet Of Death.

We're Not Meant For Happiness, You And I.