To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.
A memory flickered at him, like a little tongue of a flame.
Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog
and filthy air
By heaven he echoes me, as if there were
some monster in his thought
too hideous to be shown
I have come against that enemy of mine,
And he is given over to me
He is finished and silent...
If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent.
And it never faded, and it never got stale.