That Which Is Imagined Can Never Be

Here Is A List Of Terrible Things, The Jaws Of Sharks, A Vultures Wings The Rabid Bite Of The Dogs Of War, The Voice Of One Who Went Before, But Most Of All The Mirror's Gaze, Which Counts Us Out Our Numbered Days.

You Cut Up A Thing That's Alive And Beautiful To Find Out How It's Alive And Why It's Beautiful, And Before You Know It, It's Neither Of Those Things, And You're Standing There With Blood On Your Face And Tears In Your Sight And Only The Terrible Ache Of Guilt To Show For It.

Midian Is Where The Monsters Go.

I Am A Man, And Men Are Animals Who Tell Stories. This Is A Gift From God, Who Spoke Our Species Into Being, But Left The End Of Our Story Untold. That Mystery Is Troubling To Us. How Could It Be Otherwise? Without The Final Part, We Think, How Are We To Make Sense Of All That Went Before: Which Is To Say, Our Lives? So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.

Funny That. We Live In Islands Of Hours And We Never Seem To Have Time Enough For Anything.