I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me. All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart? I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face so murderous in its strangle of branches? Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults that kill, that kill, that kill.
"TEN YEARS AGO, at Michaelmas, the early autumn hours were fading into dusk. The day was dying slow. I had fallen off the straight and narrow into a place of harsh rocks and broken brambles, like the story of Satan falling from heaven on Saint Michael’s Day. But I had fallen from no heaven, and those who pursued me were no angels." -- from the novel SINFUL FOLK