It used to be the only thing I cared about or talked of was death. Death was my mistress, and my drawing room. Death was my law and my reprieve. Death was a convent garden to me, its black-habited attendants busily pulling weeds and stabbing the hard soil through the body with spades, while I lay in a hammock of death, and sipped from a glass of cool tea.
Death was like the pussy willow that sways and rattles with its fellows in dry winds over the still and brackish waters of a protected wetlands. We must all of us one day wade that swamp.
Death was my tinder flint. Death was the dry paper. Death was my coarse ground black pepper. Death was the ground beneath my feet, and I wore it like a hat.
Nowadays though, it all seems to have grown somehow silly.
Death was like the pussy willow that sways and rattles with its fellows in dry winds over the still and brackish waters of a protected wetlands. We must all of us one day wade that swamp.
Death was my tinder flint. Death was the dry paper. Death was my coarse ground black pepper. Death was the ground beneath my feet, and I wore it like a hat.
Nowadays though, it all seems to have grown somehow silly.
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