For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool - July 2010
by making his world a little colder
epistle
For certain men whose condemnation was written about long ago have secretly slipped in among you...
They are clouds without rain, blown along by the wind; autumn trees, without fruit and uprooted — twice dead. They are wild waves of the sea, foaming up their shame; wandering stars, for whom blackest darkness has been reserved forever.