Dreams are horrible, to don’t talk about nightmares they are more often. But there is always one gift from a person which you know is dead, that’s how it works and it will continue to work.
Jimmy: One day, when I’m no longer spending my days running a sweet-stall, I may write a book about us all. It’s all here. (slapping his forehead) Written in flames a mile high. And it won’t be recollected in tranquillity either, picking daffodils with Auntie Wordsworth. It’ll be recollected in fire, and blood. My blood.
All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.
Blood is thicker than water, I know, but it’s unnatural stuff to drink so much of. (“The Wife Of Ted Wickham
Shed not recklessly the blood of another with thy sword,
Lest the Sword on High falls upon thy neck.
Sometimes it is easier to feel the veins wilted and empty than to sense the coldness of blood in fear
Where got she her sullen mouth
And where her swaying form?
Would she live on eggs and apples
When the blood of men is warm?
(“The Young Witch
There’s a lesson in every silence.
In some literature, I’ve read, weather is used as a metaphor. The darker and stormier the weather outside the more diabolical the deeds done. When the clouds roll away, however, the rain has washed away all the blood in the streets and the world is clean and new again, as if all the violence and destruction of the storm served a divine purpose.
It is raining blood today.
I open my book and write “Black Lives Matter