My childa, How long therefore have I missed thou? What has’t thou done through all those years, while i was kilard in the drugs. Killing, hard, my brainstem my only sentience. I caught not nor called any of my days, I knew not a day to call it.
And then the Ruh sprang through me like a mighty wind and I am again..
It seemed a long slide with no stop where I had been, and now there is an underwhelming block where no me can pass. What hast thou done that field and county cower, the cows souring their milk, the very wool from the sheep’s back unravelling like wire, sharing the rows in their hedges and knit one purl one sees every last one naked.
While you were away. Brain dead from some unholy potion thou fed thysel all the world grew cold as if you were its fire extinguished There is nothing to unsay the fear thou wrought upon your childa