I slept as though the wind had rushed into my skull and broken the ice sculptures which wail there, as though the glittering towers had tumbled tragically into the swirling air, and I slept with ungentle dreams fermenting and sighing with stale shattered age.

When the blue clutch of dawn singed the stooping bare heads of the hills, I did not wake. I slept on in the strange hollow of ungentle dreams.

I am thrust into the sunlight with brute remembrances clinging like lank dew to my dry bones. But hell, I can forget these ungentle dreams.

I will forge on.