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Updated: July 16, 2025
He finally came to the point where there was no limit. His day was a waste place, his brain a parched field in the rain, his thoughts were birds of passage, his dreams a super-life. He lived on bread and fruit, treating himself only every third day to a warm meal in the inn at the sign of the White Tower.
She was the divine monster in whom each of the living found himself multiplied, the devouring Immortality where those about to die wished to believe they would find life, super-life, crowned with glory. Her invisible presence flowed through the air like wine; each man brought something to the vintage, his basket, his bunch of grapes; his ideas, passions, devotions, interests.
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