It Took The Whole Of Creation To

One Day God Felt He Ought To Give His Workshop A Spring Clean... It Was Amazing What Ragged Bits And Pieces Came From Under His Workbench As He Swept. Beginnings Of Creatures, Bits That Looked Useful But Had Seemed Wrong, Ideas He'd Mislaid And Forgotten... There Was Even A Tiny Lump Of Sun. He Scratched His Head. What Could Be Done With All This Rubbish?

The Only Calibration That Counts Is How Much Heart People Invest, How Much They Ignore Their Fears Of Being Hurt Or Caught Out Or Humiliated. And The Only Thing People Regret Is That They Didn't Live Boldly Enough, That They Didn't Invest Enough Heart, Didn't Love Enough. Nothing Else Really Counts At All.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living

That's The Paradox: The Only Time Most People Feel Alive Is When They're Suffering, When Something Overwhelms Their Ordinary, Careful Armour, And The Naked Child Is Flung Out Onto The World. That's Why The Things That Are Worst To Undergo Are Best To Remember. But When That Child Gets Buried Away Under Their Adaptive And Protective Shells—he Becomes One Of The Walking Dead, A Monster.

With A Sudden Sharp Hot Stink Of Fox, It Enters The Dark Hole Of The Head. The Window Is Starless Still; The Clock Ticks, The Page Is Printed.