Remorse is a violent dyspepsia of the mind.
Each age, it is found, must write its own books; or rather, each generation for the next succeeding.
Webs are made mostly of spaces. They break easily. They barely exist. They belong to the category of half-things: mist, smoke, shrouds, ghosts, membranes, retinas or rags; and they quickly fill up with un-things: old legs and wings and heads and hollow abdomens and body bags of wasps.
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