Full text: Black Dog Rising
A piece of the soul has a hurt, not necessarily from something done to it or by it but a hurt nonetheless, something ever in need of satisfaction. It痴 a satisfaction, as John learned, that ought never to be made, and from time to time, when the world becomes a black place, is.
From the New Issue
An excerpt from the recent marginal findings of an anonymous researcher, reproduced in the current issue in all their inconclusive entirety:
That strange unrest that enters the nostrils right from the beginning of such a day, that tantalizing promise of something to come which starts in the excitement of a morning wind's whistpering, and crescendos so loudly that its mystical echoes can be traced on the moonlight of a new face, can also be, as it had for so long been for him, an inarticulate burden which drives one first to envy and finally to lonely despair.
Poetry
I thought the thing was fully pitched;
its kicked up limbs had gone knee high,
daring themselves to show some more...