Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

Your Voices Break And Falter In The Darkness, Break, Falter, And Are Still.

Howbeit, Though No Scholar, I Am Not One Of Those Who Misuse The English Speech, And, Being Foolishly Led By The Hasty Custom Of Scriveners And Printers To Write The Letters "t" And "h" Joined Together, Which Resembleth A "y," Do Incontinently Jump To The Conclusion The The Is Pronounced "ye,"--the Like Of Which I Never Heard In All England.

Besides Writing, I Have Been Teaching Myself To 'develop' My Own Photographic Plates, And I Haven't A Stick Of Clothing Or An Exposed Finger That Isn't Stained. I Sit For Hours In A Dark-room Feeling As If I Were A Very Elderly Faust At Some Dreadful Incantation, And Come Out Of It, Blinding At The Light, Like A Bastille Prisoner. And Yet I Am Not Successful!

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

There Is Peace In The Swamp, Though The Quiet Is Death