I am dying, you see, and in that act of dying, I am realizing that death itself is an impatient schoolmaster.
... Death has begun to grip even me with its own arms, its own skeletal wrists bejeweled with anger and contempt.
...in knowing the meaning, i might control it.
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.
“I will work tirelessly at making inroads towards the mastication of flesh.”
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.
...no need to cause any trouble, no need to watch her only child wander off and whisper strange things with a strange woman.
I will not mow the lawn. Not today.