“Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness.” ― Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep
What mystery lies beneath the mist enshrouded tombs?
The dead die hard, they are born astride a grave
A stranger’s shadow finds its way across the yard by dead reckoning
He meets a deadend
He is deadbeat meat for worms
That’s a sensible cadaver
There never was such a season for mandrakes.
Shall we linger here until perdition caches up to us?
The Cemetery is a cockpit for comic panic
Sob heavy world, sob heavy.