Ernie, for God's sake, what are you playing at?
I only give him one like, with the bat.'
Man cannot call the brimming instant back;
Time's an affair of instants spun to days;
If man must make an instant gold, or black,
Let him, he may, but Time must go his ways.
Life may be duller for an instant's blaze.
Life's an affair of instants spun to years,
Instants are only cause of all these tears.
Then Anna screamed aloud. 'Help. Murder. Murder.'