In The Days Of The Frost Seek

What If I Am, In Some Way, Only A Sophisticated Fire That Has Acquired An Ability To Regulate Its Rate Of Combustion And To Hoard Its Fuel In Order To See And Walk?

We Are Rag Dolls Made Out Of Many Ages And Skins, Changelings Who Have Slept In Wood Nests, And Hissed In The Uncouth Guise Of Waddling Amphibians. We Have Played Such Roles For Infinitely Longer Ages Than We Have Been Human. Our Identity Is A Dream. We Are Process, Not Reality.

Subconsciously The Genius Is Feared As An Image Breaker; Frequently He Does Not Accept The Opinions Of The Mass, Or Man's Opinion Of Himself.

You Think That Way As You Begin To Get Grayer And You See Pretty Plainly That The Game Is Not Going To End As You Planned.

It Was The Failures Who Had Always Won, But By The Time They Won They Had Come To Be Called Successes.