For In Every Adult There Dwells The

We Are Not Meant To Know The Time Or The Nature Of Our Deaths (for All Of Us Secretly Hope That We May Be Immortal).

He Would Talk To Them Of Stories And Books, And Explain To Them How Stories Wanted To Be Told And Books Wanted To Be Read, And How Everything That They Ever Needed To Know About Life And The Land Of Which He Wrote, Or About Any Land Or Realm That They Could Imagine, Was Contained In Books. And Some Of The Children Understood, And Some Did Not.

She Was Plump, With Dyed Red Hair And A Face So Caked With Cosmetics That The Floor Of The Amazon Jungle Probably Saw More Natural Light.

Without A Human Voice To Read Them Aloud, Or A Pair Of Wide Eyes Following Them By Flashlight Beneath A Blanket, They Had No Real Existence In Our World. They Were Like Seeds In The Beak Of A Bird, Waiting To Fall To Earth, Or The Notes Of A Song Laid Out On A Sheet, Yearning For An Instrument To Bring Their Music Into Being.

. . . For A Lifetime Was But A Moment In That Place, And Each Man Dreams His Own Heaven. And In The Darkness David Closed His Eyes, As All That Was Lost Was Found Again.