Challenging Thomas Wolfe’s integrity is one thing, proving him wrong, why, that’s almost unheard of. (chuckle)

The other day, while toasting my spirits and my “A Graveyard For Lunatics” book by the flame summoned from the hellish devils which reside in my fireplace, I read part aloud, to appease the damned souls below. They were deafly silent, when I spoke of how “Thomas Wolfe was wrong, you can go home again.”, but broke out in cursing and regret when they realized how much time they wasted. I shut the book, extinguished the flame, said adieu to my company, and left southern bound.

My travel took me to my place of birth, where the trees were dead and lakes were dried up just like I left them, and so much so the elderly who tended for me in childhood. Corpses now, I partake. The house of my only neighbor still stood, so I opened the mailbox to discover an envelope from a dear lover. A sweetheart of my youth, I say.

To bring this topic to a close, I met with her, chatted of late times and deepest hours, before wishing her well on her way, as gentle as my slow decay would allow, and never thought again on it. Always so graceful, in her youth.

I do miss her.

Ray has given me a life with her, a never-ending romance which has no benefit to curtail to my senses. Her tiny memory so inefficient and full of light, no, innocence, I would think.

Raising the dead takes so much out of me. Never returning to them would be the death of me. At least, I like to think so.

In short, Ray Bradbury inspired me to write.