Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.

Once In Awhile You Have A Thought, And You Rhyme It.

A Chronicle Is Very Different From History Proper.

Till I, High In The Tower Of My Time Among Familiar Ruins, Began To Cry For Accident, Sickness, Justice, War And Crime, Because All Died, Because I Had To Die. The Snow Fell, The Trees Stood, The Promise Kept, And A Child I Slept.

Nothing In The Universe Can Travel At The Speed Of Light, They Say, Forgetful Of The Shadow's Speed.

History Is Where Tensions Were.