It Was A Clear, Starry Night, Dead

Many Words Will Be Written On The Wind And The Sand, Or End Up In Some Obscure Digital Vault. But The Storytelling Will Go On Until The Last Human Being Stops Listening. Then We Can Send The Great Chronicle Of Humanity Out Into The Endless Universe.

I Can Still Remember. I Was Ill, And I Was Seven, And My Father Didn't Want Me To Just Read Children's Books. He Came With Conan Doyle. I Tried, And I Liked It. I Think The First I Read Was 'the Sign Of The Four'; 'study In Scarlet' Was The Next One. Then I Guess I Stayed Home A Few Extra Days From School To Read.

I Remembered Her Once Saying That Life Was Like Your Shoes. You Couldn't Simply Expect Or Imagine That Your Shoes Would Fit Perfectly. Shoes That Pinched Your Feet Were A Fact Of Life.

It’s Only When We Can Work With Something That Brings Out Our Strengths That We’re Of Any Real Use.

Poverty Always Looks The Same, No Matter Where You Come Across It. The Rich Can Always Express Their Opulence By Varying Their Lives. Different Houses, Clothes, Cars. Or Thoughts, Dreams. But For The Poor There Is Nothing But Compulsory Grayness, The Only Form Of Expression Available To Poverty.