Having never started out to tell a tale at all, the horrid thing
hounds all the same; always just behind, as though at any
moment it could swipe the head off the pursued who dares not
turn to see exactly where the pursuer is or if it even still gives
chase or has envapored into the gloaming whence it came,
hence must return. Mustn’t it?
Just as the frantic prey knows itself to be sprung only for the
moment, yet will be consigned to a final doom, (though he is
mostly certain he is not at this time and place yet empledged),
so prayed for, even so hoped. Ach! So the geist didst get its
giddy-up on, knowing not its way neither thence nor whence
but galloping still,
on thru the moonless night.
poetastrophy 