The dichotomy of the living: the field notes of the dead.
One whispered to another, why are we dressed in red?
A painted pretty picture; a paradox of lies--one slipped beneath another:
concentrated in the eyes.
The tale of tales, a storybook told--one villain to the next;
there is no life, or love: is lost--
there is no glory, that's the cost.

("The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings.")