For if Shakespeare had never wrote it, would it exist? Praying that it was never available, never open to such simple minds to give to those who feel.
When you ride through the east, the battered trees hit the deck and scrape at the windows - orange illuminates the cabin. For twenty at least, twenty minds and spines watching a world flash by do not notice, do not do justice.
The constant banging of the branches and the wind blowing the leaves is what is supposed to make you contemplate nature. The being of the world and the beginning of the end. Believe it, embrace it - for it ...