It's not up to me ... to make the world consistent.
But there are things you can't consult anybody about.
People can lose their lives in libraries. They ought to be warned.
What Homo sapien imagines, he may slowly convert himself to.
The sand swallows burst out of their scupper holes in the bluffs and out over the transparent drown of the water, back again to the white, to the brown, to the black, from moving to stock-still sand waves and water-worked woods and roots that hugged and twisted in the sun.
The spirit knows that its growth is the real aim of existence.