Every Real Story Is A Never Ending

Momo Listened To Everyone And Everything - Even To The Rain And The Wind And The Pine Trees - And All Of Them Spoke To Her After Their Own Fashion.

My Will Can Control Anything That’s Empty.

People Never Seemed To Notice That, By Saving Time, They Were Losing Something Else. No One Cared To Admit That Life Was Becoming Ever Poorer, Bleaker And More Monotonous. The Ones Who Felt This Most Keenly Were The Children, Because No One Had Time For Them Any More. But Time Is Life Itself, And Life Resides In The Human Heart. And The More People Saved, The Less They Had.

One May Enter The Literary Parlor Via Just About Any Door, Be It The Prison Door, The Madhouse Door, Or The Brothel Door. There Is But One Door One May Not Enter It Through, Which Is The Child Room Door. The Critics Will Never Forgive You Such. The Great Rudyard Kipling Is One Of A Number Of People To Have Suffered From This. I Keep Wondering To Myself What This Peculiar Contempt Towards Anything Related To Childhood Is All About.

All That Matters In Life," The Grey Man Went On, "is To Climb The Ladder Of Success, Amount To Something, Own Things. When A Person Climbs Higher Than The Rest, Amounts To More, Owns More Things, Everything Else Comes Automatically: Friendship, Love, Respect, Et Cetera..." "isn't There Anyone Who Loves You?" Momo Whispered.