The Art Of Illusion Is Grace Itself.

I Have To Feel What I'm Writing, Right Down To The Core.

Ben Adaephon Delat," Pearl Said Plaintively, "see The Last Who Comes. You Send Me To My Death." "i Know," Quick Ben Whispered. "flee, Then. I Will Hold Them Enough To Ensure Your Escape No More." Quick Ben Sank Down Past The Roof. Before He Passed From Sight Pearl Spoke Again. "ben Adaephon Delat, Do You Pity Me?" "yes" He Replied Softly, Then Pivoted And Dropped Down Into Darkness.

I Love You Still, But With Your Death I Succumbed To A Kind Of Infatuation. I Convinced Myself That What You And I Had, So Very Briefly, Was Of Far Vaster And Deeper Import Than It Truly Was. Of All The Weapons We Chose To Turn Upon Ourselves, Guilt Is The Sharpest, Silverfox. It Can Carve One's Own Past Into Unrecognizable Shapes, False Memories Leading To Beliefs That Sow All Kinds Of Obsessions.

He Was A Man Who Would Never Ask For Sympathy. He Was A Man Who Sought Only To Do What Was Right. Such People Appear In The World, Every World, Now And Then, Like A Single Refrain Of Some Blessed Song, A Fragment Caught On The Spur Of An Otherwise Raging Cacophony. Imagine A World Without Such Souls. Yes, It Should Have Been Harder To Do.

Not Even The Lichen Of The Tundra Is At Peace. All Is Struggle, All Is War For Dominance. Those Who Lose, Vanish. -and We’re No Different You’re Saying- We Are, Soldier. We Possess The Privilege Of Choice. The Gift Of Foresight. Though Often We Come Too Late In Acknowledging Responsibilities….