A Poet Is A Musician Who Can't

This Is How Deeply Rooted Stories Are, Folks. We Crave Them Before We Can Walk, And We Start Telling Them Before We Can Talk.

Hespe's Mouth Went Firm. She Didn't Scowl Exactly, But It Looked Like She Was Getting All The Pieces Of A Scowl Together In One Place, Just In Case She Needed Them In A Hurry.

You Still Think I've Gone Cracked In The Head," Ben Said, Amused. "listen, If Tomorrow We Pulled Into Biren And Someone Told You There Were Shamble-men In The Woods, Would You Believe Them?" My Father Shook His Head. "what If Two People Told You?" Another Shake. Ben Leaned Forward On His Stump. "what If A Dozen People Told You, With Perfect Earnestness, That Shamble-men Were Out In The Fields, Eating-" "of Course I Wouldn't Believe Them," My Father Said, Irritated. "it's Ridiculous." "of Course It Is," Ben Agreed, Raising A Finger. "but The Real Question Is This: Would You Go Into The Woods?

Are You Hurt?" "absolutely," I Said. "especially In My Everywhere.

We Are More Than The Parts That Form Us.