There is no God and we are his prophets.

At one time in the world there were woods that no one owned

Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.

For things at a common destination there is a common path. Not always easy to see. But there.

The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.

He spoke of his campaigns in the deserts of Mexico and he told them of horses killed under him and he said that the souls of horses mirror the souls of men more closely than men suppose and that horses also love war. Men say they only learn this but he said that no creature can learn that which his heart has no shape to holo