Alive. Alive In The Way That Death

Baseball And Cricket Are Beautiful And Highly Stylized Medieval War Substitutes, Chess Made Flesh, A Mixture Of Proud Chivalry And Base-in Both Senses-greed.

How Can One Build A Better Self Unless On The Ruins Of The Old?

He Is Solid; Immovable, Iron-willed. He Showed Me One Day His Killing Bottle. I'm Imprisoned In It. Fluttering Against The Glass. Because I Can See Through It I Still Think I Can Escape. I Have Hope. But It's All An Illusion. A Thick Round Wall Of Glass.

Only One Same Reason Is Shared By All Of Us: We Wish To Create Worlds As Real As, But Other Than The World That Is. Or Was. This Is Why We Cannot Plan. We Know A World Is An Organism, Not A Machine. We Also Know That A Genuinely Created World Must Be Independent Of Its Creator; A Planned World (a World That Fully Reveals Its Planning) Is A Dead World. It Is Only When Our Characters And Events Begin To Disobey Us That They Begin To Live.

Just Those Three Words, Said And Meant. I Love You. They Were Quite Hopeless. He Said It As He Might Have Said, I Have Cancer. His Fairy Story.