I'm Writing This Book Because We're All

And Silence Is The Golden Mountain

We Turned At A Dozen Paces, For Love Is A Duel, And Looked At Each Other For The Last Time.

She Brooded And Bit Her Rich Lips: My Soul Began Its First Sink Into Her, Deep, Heady, Lost; Like Drowning In A Witches' Brew, Keltic, Sorcerous, Starlike.

The Dream Is Already Ended And We're Already Awake In The Golden Eternity.

If You Dont [sic] Say What You Want, What's The Sense Of Writing?