One Could Drown In Irrelevance.

She Sleepwalked From Moment To Moment, And Whole Months Slipped By Without Memory, Without Bearing The Faintest Imprint Of Her Conscious Will.

In A Story You Only Had To Wish, You Only Had To Write It Down And You Could Have The World...it Seemed So Obvious Now That It Was Too Late: A Story Was A Form Of Telepathy. By Means Of Inking Symbols Onto A Page, She Was Able To Send Thoughts And Feelings From Her Mind To Her Reader's. It Was A Magical Process, So Commonplace That No One Stopped To Wonder At It. Reading A Sentence And Understanding It Were The Same Thing; As With The Crooking Of A Finger, Nothing Lay Between Them. There Was No Gap During Which The Symbols Were Unraveled.

When There Are No Consequences, Being Wrong Is Simply A Diversion.

This Is How The Entire Course Of A Life Can Be Changed - By Doing Nothing.

The Primitive Thinking Of The Supernaturally Inclined Amounts To What His Psychiatric Colleagues Call A Problem, Or An Idea, Of Reference. An Excess Of The Subjective, The Ordering Of The World In Line With Your Needs, An Inability To Contemplate Your Own Unimportance. In Henry's View Such Reasoning Belongs On A Spectrum At Whose Far End, Rearing Like An Abandoned Temple, Lies Psychosis.