Why Break The Heart That Never Beat

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.

Mount And Begone. The World Awaits You.

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

He Had No Longer Any Need For Home, For He Carried His Gormenghast Within Him. All That He Sought Was Jostling Within Himself. He Had Grown Up. What A Boy Had Set Out To Seek A Man Had Found, Found By The Act Of Living.

In The Presence Of Real Tragedy You Feel Neither Pain Nor Joy Nor Hatred, Only A Sense Of Enormous Space And Time Suspended, The Great Doors Open To Black Eternity, The Rising Across The Terrible Field Of That Last Enormous, Unanswerable Question.