Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Do you know what happens with people who cannot govern themselves? That's right. Others come in to govern for them.

The universe is no narrow thing and the order within it is not constrained by any latitude in its conception to repeat what exists in one part in any other part. Even in this world more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man’s mind can compass, that mind itself being but a fact among others.

We're carrying the fire.

You go back home and everything you wished was different is still the same and everything you wished was the same is different.

The wrath of God lies sleeping. It was hid a million years before men were and only men have the power to wake it.

The world could only be known as it existed in men's hearts. For while it seemed a place which contained men it was in reality a place contained within them.