I Have Heard Sometimes That Men Who

But You Hate Poetry! Yes, But You Make Me Want To Write It.

Is There Some Particular Reason That You're Here?" ... "not This Again." "not What Again?" Said Clary. "every Time I Annoy Him, He Retreats Into His No Mundanes Allowed Tree House." Simon Pointed At Jace.

He Took Something Out Of His Jacket And Handed It To Her. It Was A Long Thin Dagger In A Leather Sheath. The Hilt Of The Dagger Was Set With A Single Red Stone Carved In The Shape Of A Rose. She Shook Her Head. "i Wouldn't Even Know How To Use That--" He Pressed It Into Her Hand, Curling Her Fingers Around It. "you'd Learn." He Dropped His Voice. "it's In Your Blood." She Drew Her Hand Back Slowly. "all Right." "i Could Give You A Thigh Sheath To Put That In," Isabelle Offered. "i've Got Tons." "certainly Not," Said Simon.

That Was What Humans Did: They Left On Another Messages Through Time, Pressed Between Pages Or Carved Into Rock. Like Reaching Out A Hand Through Time, And Trusting In A Phantom Hoped-for Hand To Catch Yours. Humans Did Not Last Forever. They Could Only Hope What They Made Would Endure.

That Sounds Terrific, Thought Cary, Just You, Your Comatose Wife Your Shell-shocked Son, And Your Daughter Who Hates Your Guts. Not To Mention That Your Two Kids May Be In Love With Each Other. Yeah, That Sounds Like A Perfect Family Reunion.