Might we never grow accustomed to a punishable defense. Upon thought, fury is bending rage. Knowing no madness but a fine and gentle whisper, turned to a piercing scream, when thyne hallows smell of breath, and the last of it. Walk away, on mossy loam, for there is none to stay your mind here. No, free it, now, whence fresh is sour, and gravel is sharp.
Do these streets not pave them followers to a brighter day? Or do they wander, content in the rank stench of vile economy? Ask them if there were a better service to be made, would it be due to a leader, a King, or a pasteur, where wild violets grow and flutter?
Killed are bodies left to a fallow, mourned are those buried in boxes. Must we house the dead to remember them? Are we so forgetful, that a sigh or a gesture will be as air, and seasoned skies? Hope for such a beautiful morning that a wake does offer life in lightness.
Questions and symptoms are given such that those asking will soon mislay their enquiries, and take interest in a fantasy, resting ground for those passed. To be forgotten but never to care of living on. To be killed, but never to care for the wound or assailant.
Passage can take no other form. Will it fly or will it force struggle? Will it to allow peace and fortune, or will it to receive battle. Passage is so that it will not be tested, but it can test. Passage, as it stands to be trodden, waits as those leaving pass through, waiting themselves when the way permits. Is there no other guide but the way, is there no other way to be guided?
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