B.E. Scully

This is not written for the young or the light of heart, not for the tranquil species of men whose souls are content with the simple pleasures of family, church, or profession. Rather, I write to those beings like myself whose existence is compounded by a lurid intermingling of the dark and thelight; who can judge rationally and think with reason, yet who feel too keenly and churn with too great a passion; who have an incessant longing for happiness and yet areshadowed by a deep and persistent melancholy__hose who grasp gratification where they may, but find no lasting comfort for the soul.

Everybody stood dead still. It was as if now that we were about to get out of the Tower for the first time since the flood, we were scared, like we were crossing some line that we wouldn__ be able to uncross.--Greenleigh