John William Waterhouse waterhouse Ophelia

John William Waterhouse waterhouse OpheliaJohn William Waterhouse Hylas and the NymphsJohn William Waterhouse Waterhouse Ophelia
Anyone could see there had been a mistake. He’d known all along it had been a mistake.
He tossed the ?
Obviously it was something you had to be born to. Death saddled his horse and rode out and up over the fields. The corn rippled far below, like the sea. Miss Flitworth would have to find someone else to help her gather in the harvest.
That was odd. There was a feeling there. Regret? Was that it? But it was Bill Door’s feeling, and Bill Door was . . . dead. Had never lived. He was his old self again, safe where there were no feelings and no regretsoveralls in a corner and took up the robe of absolute blackness.Well, it had been an experience. And, he had to admit, one that he didn’t want to relive. He felt as though a huge weight had been removed. Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward?How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive