Here beyond men's judgments all covenants were brittle.

Our waking life's desire to shape the world to our convenience invites all manner of paradox and difficulty.

The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad? What do you think? Well, I think we're still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we're still here. Yeah. You don't think that's so great. It's okay.

What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

But I didn't know what to say to him. What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything?

Your heart's desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.

The night is quiet. Like a camp before battle. The city beset by a thing unknown and will it come from forest or sea? The murengers have walled the pale, the gates are shut, but lo the thing's inside and can you guess his shape? Where he's kept or what's the counter of his face? Is he a weaver, bloody shuttle shot through a time warp, a carder of souls from the world's nap? Or a hunter with hounds or do bone horses draw his dead cart through the streets and does he call his trade to each? Dear friend he is not to be dwelt upon for it is by just such wise that he's invited in