series2bk6.084

 

I spilled over with a silly comment, making the mistake of offering gratuitous offence, (senseless in logic,) to someone who hadn't provoked me - stoking up an inner furnace of guilt. Tilting back in a convoluted shell, like a salted snail, I lie there squirming, burning, turning into monstrous shapes, depicting gaping holes, or the dereliction of a smouldering soul. The old suicidal questions recur - stirring the glorious thought of life's extinction - a fictional end, like flirting with a pretty girl superlatively virtuous, and therefore unattainable.      However much my heart might wish to try,      an heir apparent has no right to die!