The best way to escape His ire is not to seem too happy, so reasoned Browning's Caliban. Soon enough, I expect that I shall merge into the immensity of time, and I hear the hymn line where Jesus is tenderly calling, His voice combining with those gentle voices calling "old black Joe." I will readily step forth into Charon's craft, my face steadfast toward the stygian unknown. Oh would that I could find some swift and easeful surcease from all my sadness and my sorrow. I have no wish in living on in pain, in grief, in misery. I would gladly slip across that bourne of time and place, from which no traveller e'er returns, if I might spend eternity as a zephyr fanning across virile and voluptuous nudes upon some pristine, sunny beach or might I be a zeitgeist driving any number of the miserables to depression and despair. There is a theory that the more you have to struggle to live, the less is death a viable consideration. But I shall be as steadfast in my purpose of self-immolation as is the rage residing in a mother's heart when bereft of all that she held most dear.