And As If Reporting Some Felony To

So We Found The End Of Our Journey. So We Stood, Alive In The River Of Light, Among The Creatures Of Light, Creatures Of Light.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.

But Who Is Stronger Than Death? Me , Evidently .

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.

One Day God Felt He Ought To Give His Workshop A Spring Clean... It Was Amazing What Ragged Bits And Pieces Came From Under His Workbench As He Swept. Beginnings Of Creatures, Bits That Looked Useful But Had Seemed Wrong, Ideas He'd Mislaid And Forgotten... There Was Even A Tiny Lump Of Sun. He Scratched His Head. What Could Be Done With All This Rubbish?