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?

Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone.

For death is life. It is only living that is lifeless.

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.

Mount and begone. The world awaits you.

Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.

The Earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations.