My book shelves are overflowing with volumes, some foxed, others pristine - my crazy library has no system - The Horror in the Museum rubs covers with The Anatomy of Melancholy - ziggurats of paperbacks rise from the floor -
Jay looked in horror at the turbulent book cases - there's no order here at all - he then peers into a cob webbed recess - that's my Thomas Browne -
Last week, I discovered some unsettling tales by Arthur Machen, guarded by a pale spider - I re-read The Hill of Dreams -
When I went walking in the woods at Arne, I thought of this beautiful nightmarish story - it was dusk - the darkness was gathering amongst the trees -
Stags screeched, unseen, yet not far away - grey squirrels darted up gnarled oaks - dry leaves covered the snaky path - a crow was a swirling oily shape above bare branches -
It was at such an hour, I thought, that one might see different worlds, each one lit with a terrible glamour - I might see a man with antlers swaying upon his head - a red figure might coil itself around a white -
It was at such an hour, I thought, that one might see different worlds, each one lit with a terrible glamour - I might see a man with antlers swaying upon his head - a red figure might coil itself around a white -
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