The waves crash on the shore below us. It’s beautiful here. I could sleep here forever...
what did Puck say? what was it...? ...no more yielding... yielding... to dream.
How can I explain that he’s been the same person over the course of forty or more years’ worth of TV shows...
Last night was still and quiet when I stepped out for smoke. I had quit months ago. But I wanted to feel that smoke in my lungs again.
I am dying, you see, and in that act of dying, I am realizing that death itself is an impatient schoolmaster.
Maybe a physical shadow – skin cells left that have combined their DNA with the tendriled confusion of the clovered outfield...
Crum went on about this place, lingering on its smells and secret footprint and whispers of rodentine residents as if it was a temple set in the lush forests of some distant land. Or maybe he saw it as a kind of Terabithia where dreams rose and fell like a restless tide from the sleep of the dead.
More than that, though, the trees grew up like the earth’s own thick hairs – unkempt, unfettered. Cattails like whiskers filled in the low areas. And from every direction, the rot of the earth’s flesh puckered his nostrils.
Leaves 