It Was A Shameful Thing That She

Reader, Pray That Soon This Iron Age Will Crumble, And Beauty Escape The Rusting Cage.

All The Human Beings I Met Were Either Sure That There Would Be No Afterlife Or Else That They Would Get Preferential Treatment In The Hereafter.

Despite My Vast Interest In Other Universes And New Ideas And Space, Travel And Time Travel, Which By The Way I Think Is Impossible, The Basic Thing Is Human Character, Which Is The Main Thing Of Most Writers.

Resurrection, Like Politics, Makes Strange Bedfellows.

Sawbeaked Epitome Of Bodiless Idea, Tossed By Gusts Of Ether, Dive Through Abstract Mists And Raid The Sea Of Fact Eat Rich Strange Fish, Grow Long Bright Feathers, Press Form's Flesh Around Thought's Rib, And So Derive From The Act Of Beauty, Beauty Of The Act.