Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.

Sometimes it's just silent...No sound at all. 'Does that scare you?' Chad nods. 'Why?' asks his father. 'It's like something's waiting.

Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.

This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.

Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.

And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.

One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.