When Words Cease To Cling Close To

With Usura With Usura Hath No Man A House Of Good Stone Each Block Cut Smooth And Well Fitting.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

Fundamental Accuracy Of Statement Is The One Sole Morality Of Writing.

The Individual Cannot Think And Communicate His Thought, The Governor And Legislator Cannot Act Effectively Or Frame His Laws Without Words, And The Solidity And Validity Of These Words Is In The Care Of The Damned And Despised Litterati...when Their Very Medium, The Very Essence Of Their Work, The Application Of Word To Thing Goes Rotten, I.e. Becomes Slushy And Inexact, Or Excessive Or Bloated, The Whole Machinery Of Social And Of Individual Thought And Order Goes To Pot.

Fit For Kings, Formal Gardens Afford An Earthly Elysium And The Odd Impression That We Mere Men Might Actually Control Nature For A Time.