I'm An Ecumenical Reader, Grew

The World Was A World Of Dreaming Souls Who Could Not Die.

So, Whenever I'm Writing, I'm Writing In The Presence Of All The Other Books I've Read And I Think We All Are.

It Was Possible, He Understood, For A Person's Life To Become Just A Long Series Of Mistakes, And That The End, When It Came, Was Just One More Mistake In A Chain Of Bad Choices. The Thing Was, Most Of These Mistakes Were Actually Borrowed From Other People. You Took Their Bad Ideas, And For Whatever Reason, Made Them Your Own.

Sara Waited A Respectful Time, Knowing There Was Nothing She Could Do To Ease The Woman's Pain. Grief Was A Place, Sara Understood, Where A Person Went Alone. It Was Like A Room Without Doors, And What Happened In That Room, All The Anger And The Pain You Felt, Was Meant To Stay There, Nobody's Business But Yours.

It Was What You Did, Wolgast Understood; You Started To Tell A Story About Who You Were, And Soon Enough The Lies Were All You Had And You Became That Person.