..books Look As If They Contain Knowledge,

We Live, We Die, We Are Remembered, We Are Forgotten.

There Is Accumulation. There Is Responsibility. And Beyond This There Is Great Unrest.

How Often Do We Tell Our Own Life Story? How Often Do We Adjust, Embellish, Make Sly Cuts? And The Longer Life Goes On, The Fewer Are Those Around To Challenge Our Account, To Remind Us That Our Life Is Not Our Life, Merely The Story We Have Told About Our Life. Told To Others, But — Mainly — To Ourselves.

Perhaps The World Progresses Not By Maturing, But By Being In A Permanent State Of Adolescence, Of Thrilled Discovery.

In Life, Every Ending Is Just The Start Of Another Story.