Dustfinger Closed His Eyes And Listened. He

What Was A Slap For Ten Pages Of Escapism, Ten Pages Far From Everything That Made Him Unhappy, Ten Pages Of Real Life Instead Of The Monotony That Other People Called The Real World?

Perhaps There's Another, Much Larger Story Behind The Printed One, A Story That Changes Just As Our Own World Does. And The Letters On The Page Tell Us Only As Much As We'd See Peering Through A Keyhole. Perhaps The Story In The Book Is Just The Lid On A Pan: It Always Stays The Same, But Underneath There's A Whole World That Goes On - Developing And Changing Like Our Own World.

Down There The Nights Are Bright And Nobody Believes In The Devil.

The Night Breathed Through The Apartment Like A Dark Animal. The Ticking Of A Clock. The Groan Of A Floorboard As He Slipped Out Of His Room. All Was Drowned By Its Silence. But Jacob Loved The Night. He Felt It On His Skin Like A Promise. Like A Cloak Woven From Freedom And Danger.

I Live In Hamburg; That's In The North. And I Live On The Outskirts Of Town. It Looks Like Countryside.