Talking is a function of the mind.

Singing of the soul.

Adjectives are perverse, and make us feel like rotated brains.

Somewhere I recall reading about a man who sang only to himself:

I think I’m talking about The Hill of Dreams, by Machen.

Lucian was the fellow’s name.

I stop sometimes to admire nature and find I cannot.

Ducks are cute, and trees are lovely, but my soul is desecrated.

Why then do I persist?

Here’s a little something: