He saw in happiness the seeds of independence, and in independence the seeds of revolt.
The Earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations.
And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears- the wind howls. Why must you mimic them?
I am the wilderness lost in man.
Why break the heart that never beat from love?
The moon slid inexorably into its zenith, the shadows shrivelling to the feet of all that cast them, and as Rantel approached the hollow at the hem of the Twisted Woods he was treading in a pool of his own midnight.