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.

Through her, in microcosm, the wide earth sobbed. The starglobe sank in her; the colours faded. The death-dew rose and the wild birds in her breast climbed to her throat and gathered songless, hovering, all tumult, wing to wing, so ardent for those climes where all things end.

Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone.

Something to remember, that: cats for missiles.

To live at all is miracle enough.

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

Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.