I hear a lot about sinners...

There was something peculiarly gratifying about shouting in a blind rage until your words ran out. Of course, the aftermath was less pleasant. Once you'd told everyone you hated them and not to come after you, where exactly did you go? I guess my pride really does get in the way sometimes. I have turned out to be revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. Then, when I looked over the horizon, it seemed as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Something I am quite sure I am unprepared for. 

As clouds enveloped the sky, they woke the being he was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry he could not satisfy. It was the night of a thunder-storm; a sort of hurricane shook him in his bed: he rose in panic and started to shiver. The tempest took hold of him with tyranny: he was roughly roused and obliged to live. Outside was wet, it was wild, it was pitch dark. He tried to gather his thoughts as his night-lamp illuminated his face. He could not fall back asleep: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language could never deliver - too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts.