This is written in the elder days as the Earth rides close to the rim of eternity, edging nearer to the dying Sun, into which her two inner companions of the solar system have already plunged to a fiery death. The Twilight of the Gods is history; and our planet drifts on and on into that oblivion from which nothing escapes, to which time itself may be dedicated in the final cosmic reckoning.

This is the very center of everything there is. A huge black hole eating up the galaxy. The end of everything.

And time itself? Time was a never-ending medium that stretched into the future and the past - except there was no future and no past, but an infinite number of brackets, extending either way, each bracket enclosing its single phase of the Universe.

These are the stories the Dogs tell, when the fires burn high and the wind is from the north.

My reluctance to use alien invasion is due to the feeling that we are not likely to be invaded and taken over.

It is only of life on Earth, however, that one can speak with any certainty. It seems to me that all life on Earth, the sum total of life upon the Earth, has purpose.

I'm just a propagandist and a propagandist doesn't have to know what he is talking about, just so he talks about it most convincingly.