Detachment Is A Flaw, Not A Virtue-don’t

The Idea That An Author Can Extricate Her Or His Own Ongoing Life Experience From The Tale Being Written Is A Conceit Of Very Little Worth.

We Humans Do Not Understand Compassion. In Each Moment Of Our Lives, We Betray It. Aye, We Know Of Its Worth, Yet In Knowing We Then Attach To It A Value, We Guard The Giving Of It, Believing It Must Be Earned, T’lan Imass. Compassion Is Priceless In The Truest Sense Of The Wold. It Must Be Given Freely. In Abundance.

And Over It All, The Butterflies Swarmed, Like A Million Yellow-pettalled Flowers Dancing On Swirling Winds.

A Celebration Of Insignificance, Is That All We Are In The End? And One Day I’ll Just Be One More Of Those Faces, Frozen In Death And Wonder

Never, Dear Gods. Never Mess With Mortals.