The Stars, They Are As

The Lesson Of History Is That No One Learns.

The Idea That An Author Can Extricate Her Or His Own Ongoing Life Experience From The Tale Being Written Is A Conceit Of Very Little Worth.

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

You’re Loitering, Citizen.” “actually, I Was Hesitating.

He Was A Man Who Would Never Ask For Sympathy. He Was A Man Who Sought Only To Do What Was Right. Such People Appear In The World, Every World, Now And Then, Like A Single Refrain Of Some Blessed Song, A Fragment Caught On The Spur Of An Otherwise Raging Cacophony. Imagine A World Without Such Souls. Yes, It Should Have Been Harder To Do.