Storms Probably Exist Only Because After Them

An Island Can Be Dreadful For Someone From Outside. Everything Is Complete, And Everyone Has His Obstinate, Sure And Self-sufficient Place. Within Their Shores, Everything Functions According To Rituals That Are As Hard As Rock From Repetition, And At The Same Time They Amble Through Their Days As Whimsically And Casually As If The World Ended At The Horizon.

But He Thought All The Strange Words Were Beautiful, And He Had Never Had A Book Of His Own Before.

Gathering Is Peculiar, Because You See Nothing But What You're Looking For. If You're Picking Raspberries, You See Only What's Red, And If You're Looking For Bones You See Only The White. No Matter Where You Go, The Only Thing You See Is Bones.

It's A Funny Thing About Bogs. You Can Fill Them With Rocks And Sand And Old Logs And Make A Little Fenced-in Yard On Top With A Woodpile And Chopping Block - But Bogs Go Right On Behaving Like Bogs. Early In The Spring They Breathe Ice And Make Their Own Mist, In Remembrance Of The Time When They Had Black Water And Their Own Sedge Blossoming Untouched.

It Looks Rather Ordinary," Said The Snork. "unless You Consider That A Top Hat Is Always Somewhat Extraordinary, Of Course.