Resurrection, Like Politics, Makes Strange Bedfellows.

Sawbeaked Epitome Of Bodiless Idea, Tossed By Gusts Of Ether, Dive Through Abstract Mists And Raid The Sea Of Fact Eat Rich Strange Fish, Grow Long Bright Feathers, Press Form's Flesh Around Thought's Rib, And So Derive From The Act Of Beauty, Beauty Of The Act.

By This He Meant That All Events, Therefore, All Men, Are Interconnected In An Unbreakable Web. What Man Does, No Matter How Seemingly Insignificant, Vibrates Through The Strands And Affects Every Man.

There Are Universes Begging For Gods, Yet He Hangs Around This One Looking For Work.

Now We Have Lit A Candle To The Power Of Atoms; Now We Know We're Heirs Of Light Itself.

Imagination Is Like A Muscle. I Found Out That The More I Wrote, The Bigger It Got.