the place drawn out ofa quiet heavy nothinglike a letter from me to myselfeach thinking the other a foolevery city is allthe cities in the worldtheir neighbors in the country payin blood and little supper
years of my life fullof horrid memorytaking me back into the riverthat thin nationall fury and revengecruel men never sufferbarbarous as the afternoon office
the whole differencebetween a wood and an armyis lovethey that laugh and do nothingonly respect the graverazing all the strongholdsgiving the land a massacre in the fieldsbut none of the men I write aboutburn like candles