Here Is A Truth, A

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).

You Can't Prove That Something Doesn't Exist. You Can Only Prove That Something Does Exist.

I Am Sorry," I Whispered. "i Am Sorry For All Of The Ways That I Failed You. I Am Sorry That I Was Not There To Save You, Or To Die Alongside You. I Am Sorry That I Have Kept You With Me For So Long, Trapped In My Heart, Bound In Sorrow And Remorse. I Forgive You Too. I Forgive You For Leaving Me, And I Forgive You For Returning. I Forgive You Your Anger, And Your Grief. Let This Be An End To It.

I Don't Think," He Said, "that A Vicar Is Supposed To Beat A Bishop To Death, Or Even Back To Death." Mr. Berkeley Looked Down Upon The Remains Of Bishop Bernard. "if Anyone Asks, We'll Say He Fell Over," He Said. "lots Of Times.

On More Than One Occasion David, In His Urge To Explore The Darker Corners Of The Bookshelves, Had Found Himself Wearing Strands Of Spider Silk In His Face And Hair, Causing The Web's Creator To Scuttle Into A Corner And Crouch Balefully, Lost In Thoughts Of Arachnoid Revenge.