Nothing Is Lost. . .everything Is Transformed.

There Are Many Kinds Of Delusion.

As They Advanced (towards The Fountain) One After Another Of Bastian's Fastastican Gifts Fell Away From Him. The Strong, Handsome, Fearless Hero Became The Small, Fat, Timid Boy. (...) But Then He Jumped Into The Crystal-clear Water... He Drank Till His Thrist Was Quenched. And Joy Filled Him From Head To Foot, The Joy Of Living And The Joy Of Being Himself. He Was New Born. And The Best Part Of It Was That He Was Now The Very Person He Wanted To Be. If He Had Been Free To Choose, He Would Have Chosen To Be No One Else.

One May Enter The Literary Parlor Via Just About Any Door, Be It The Prison Door, The Madhouse Door, Or The Brothel Door. There Is But One Door One May Not Enter It Through, Which Is The Child Room Door. The Critics Will Never Forgive You Such. The Great Rudyard Kipling Is One Of A Number Of People To Have Suffered From This. I Keep Wondering To Myself What This Peculiar Contempt Towards Anything Related To Childhood Is All About.

Maybe All The People Who Say Ghosts Don't Exist Are Just Afraid To Admit That They Do.

Calendars And Clocks Exist To Measure Time, But That Signifies Little Because We All Know That An Hour Can Seem As Eternity Or Pass In A Flash, According To How We Spend It.