The Comprehensive Incubus
When Night in her rustie dungeon hath imprisoned our ey-sight, and that we are shut separately in our chambers from resort, the divell keepeth his audit in our sin-guilty consciences, no sense but surrenders to our memorie a true bill of parcels of his detestable impietis. The table of our hart is turned to an index of iniquities, and all our thoughts are nothing but texts to condemn us. The rest we take in our beds is such another kinde of rest as the weerie traveller taketh in the coole, soft grasse in summer, who thinking there to lye at ease, and refresh his tyred limmes, layeth his fainting head unawares on a loathsome neast of snakes.
THIS IS my confession. An account of the events and circumstances leading to the murder of Doctor Felix Nussman.
Doctor Felix Nussman arrived three years ago, in early October. He took possession of the ground-floor apartment identical to and opposite mine; five hexed rooms occupied by a succession of unsuccessful lawyers and physicians. His arrival, as were his medical predecessors’, was openly reviewed by a considerable gathering; the public auditing his belongings and assessing him (shabby instrument cabinets) for trust-with reverse blessing, God forbid-in the middle of some night, and secondarily debating (paper cartons, bundles, books) whether he’d sustain himself (pieces of much tried plain furniture) by drugs or abortions. Were it either, if only it were, I’d give… strange, what exchange could I make, stranger yet I can’t even fantasize how life would be without my present determination.
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