Yet Not With All Of

Life Is Too Fleet For Onomatopoeia.

There Are Times When The Air That Floats Between Mortals Becomes, In Its Stillness And Silence, As Cruel As The Edge Of A Scythe.

For Death Is Life. It Is Only Living That Is Lifeless.

For What Use Are Books To Anyone Whose Days Are Like A Rook's Nest With Every Twig A Duty.

I Am The Wilderness Lost In Man.