Call Me Meier," Goring Said, But He

Beauty In This Iron Age Must Turn, From Fluid Living Rainbow Shapes To Torn, And Sootened Fragments, Ashes In An Urn, On Whose Gray Surface Runes Are Traced By A Norn, Who Hopes To Wake The Future To Arise, In Phoenix-fashion, And To Shine With Rays, To Blast The Sight Of Modern Men Whose Dyes, Of Selfishness And Lust Have Stained Our Days...

Give Us Power, Give Us Light To Holdall Love Within Our Breast's Small Space.

Resurrection, Like Politics, Makes Strange Bedfellows.

Let Those Who Think The Soul Is Shallow Rail, They Must Be Warned Before They Dare To Leap They'll Plunge Into The Twilight Depths Where Sweep In Ceaseless Thirst Great Teeth Too Swift To Fail.

Despite My Vast Interest In Other Universes And New Ideas And Space, Travel And Time Travel, Which By The Way I Think Is Impossible, The Basic Thing Is Human Character, Which Is The Main Thing Of Most Writers.