None of us have much idea where we are. Perhaps all our lives are too concerned with where, and not enough with who.

I always was going to be a writer. The other jobs were just to keep me in food. Though I enjoyed the archaeology.

Finn smiled ruefully. "I'm a Prisoner, old man. Just like you.

He sang his last song. And the words of that have never been written down. But it was sweet and of great beauty, and those that heard it were changed utterly. Some say it was the song that moves the stars.

Nothing has changed, or will change. So we must change it.

All my years to this moment All my roads to this wall. All my words to this silence All my pride to this fall. -Songs of Sapphique

I remember a story of a girl in Paradise who ate an apple once. Some wise Sapient gave it to her. Because of it she saw things differently. What had seemed gold coins were dead leaves. Rich clothes were rags of cobweb. And she saw there was a wall around the world, with a locked gate.