We Need The Expressive Arts,

I Held Out My Book. It Was Precious To Me, As Were All The Things I'd Written; Even Where I Despised Their Inadequacy There Was Not One I Would Disown. Each Tore Its Way From My Entrails. Each Had Shortened My Life, Killed Me With Its Own Special Little Death.

What Is Any Of This To Us? Time Is Endless And Ours. Love And Death Are Only The Games We Play In It.

The Dictate Of The Light Says: Know Yourself And What You Are. The Dark Replies, By All Means, But Then Become Afraid.

The Soul Is A Magician. Only Living Flesh Hampers It.

Flat Or Round, There Has Always Been Hate In The World.