The servants have the power, dog-men and their mean women pulling poor blankets over our sailors. I’m sick of these dour faces staring at me from the TV tower. I want roses in my garden bower, dig? Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful comes death on a strange hour unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you’ve brought to bed. Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven’s claws. This other kingdom seems by far the best until it’s other jaw reveals incest and loose obedience to a vegetable law. I will not go. I prefer a Feast of Friends to the giant family.