Can it be that this can make a candle’s worth unworthy as I am of words I used to have I think the play’s the thing at fancy and imagination, but expenditures of heart and wax back-breaking as in half and half a mind to be deleted here thereby delivered from the agon of a hope of effort ever ever coming to fruition in fulfillment of a destiny destructed under influential spirits.
Swift, the retribution and a tribute to this instrument of torture that I am myself. I tribute it. I tribute it. I am a river of this tribute. I’ll retribute then and then retire in the dark that’s barely lit with wasted wax; three wicks worth, scented, dwindling.