Castles fall, and flowers fade, and all that man has ever made, it crumbles into dust; as man is dust, thus is his work, and every age forgets this truth until they die themselves.
I dreamed of gothic ruins, of moonlit nights, and of a door I knew I shouldn’t open. Yet it opened, and I know not how those hinges turned. I suspect myself.
There are things waiting in decay, cold things, which ooze and smell. There are things that hold on; refusing to die, they devour the future. There are things in my dreams that I don’t know.
(Is it just me, or is my writing getting a little odd since my tooth extraction? Send help.)
Tale Told 