Probably the most morbid tale in all respected literature…

THE THREE FRIENDS by Walter de la Mare

“There’s nothing to come.”

Mr Sully “like an over-glutted vulture” and Mr Eaves, two friends, who, amid ominous thunderheads, enter a bar to seek comfort from a sewing-woman called Miss Lacey, being a naïve woman with basic common-sense who unknowingly provides a sort of simple-minded confessional, overlooked from another part of the bar by a commissionaire.
Mr Eaves is a young man suffering a spiritual crisis as a result of a dream about Hell, aka death, as a stasis of not being able to die except as being sentenced to a nothingness of now. A death sentence seemingly commissioned by all these sentences as realised by each reader’s current self, I guess — plunged into what my own self sees as its own Eaves cupboard of Hell, while the thunderstorm continues to rumble outside. “‘Oh, fast; bless you,’ said Miss Lacey.”

“; over and over again, click, click, click, click, click;”


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