by Danny James
Not all storms restore thence, but further by thoughts bad and ill deeds fed, stay the bringer, quarrelsome under his own blizzard abiding and spares every mans cottage under a bliss but his own. Stall the outrage gentle heart, or break; into a thousand tiny pieces flung by perspectives chilly after gale, and lost. Do not swell to custom but become. Retire to quietude once in a splendid while, adopt an equable climate. Read a quiet book; how they grand tales contain. Hang the senses upon a soothing ballad and by a candle lit, burrow down, deep into yourself, through the furthermost caverns of you. Find that trembling being, huddled in the dark.