To Poison A Nation, Poison Its Stories.

There Is A Kind Of Expressed Love Which Is Easy To Subvert. When A Figure Is Loved For Their Deeds, Their Conquests, Their Heroism, Their Goodness, Their Love Of The People, These Are Easy Enough To Destroy... But There Is A Kind Of Love Which Is Felt For Apparently No Reason... A Love, Inspired, It Seems, By The Gods, Which It Is Impossible To Fight, Distort, Destroy, Or Weaken. In Fact, The Attempts To Destroy Such Loves Only Strengthen Them. And To Do Nothing Allows Them To Continue To Grow At Their Natural Pace, Inexoribly, Till This Love Becomes A Wide And Silent Adoration.

The Earliest Storytellers Were Magi, Seers, Bards, Griots, Shamans. They Were, It Would Seem, Old As Time, And As Terrifying To Gaze Upon As The Mysteries With Which They Wrestled .. (they) Helped The Community Live Though One More Darkness, With Eyes Wide Open, And With Hearts Set Alight.

I Know That Human Beings Are Capable Of Anything.

What Hope Is There For Individual Reality Or Authenticity When The Forces Of Violence And Orthodoxy, The Earthly Powers Of Guns And Bombs And Manipulated Public Opinion Make It Impossible For Us To Be Authentic And Fulfilled Human Beings? The Only Hope Is In The Creation Of Alternative Values, Alternative Realities. The Only Hope Is In Daring To Redream One's Place In The World - A Beautiful Act Of Imagination, And A Sustained Act Of Self Becoming. Which Is To Say That In Some Way Or Another We Breach And Confound The Accepted Frontiers Of Things.

The Road Will Never Swallow You. The River Of Destiny Will Always Overcome Evil. May You Understand Your Fate. Suffering Will Never Destroy You, But Will Make You Stronger. Success Will Never Confuse You Of Scatter Your Spirit, But Will Make You Fly Higher Into The Good Sunlight. Your Life Will Always Surprise You.