Some writers later, describing the events of that night and day, wrote that Wan'yen of the Altai had seen a spirit-dragon of the river and become afraid. Writers do that sort of thing. They like dragons in their tales.

As many have noted, the peril for authors is that our work space is too easily our play space.

By things so achingly small are lives measured and marred.

How we remember changes how we have lived. Time runs both ways. We make stories of our lives.

What mortal knew the way their fate line would run?

Ice is for death and endings.

You'd never killed anyone. Then you had.