 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.