The Treasures Of The Earth Were Movement,

Such A Thing As The Child Left Alone To Die In The Hallway Was Unknown On The Marsh. But Here, In The Dawn, Was Mortality Itself. In The City Were Places To Fall From Which One Could Never Emerge -- Dark Dreams And Slow Death, The Death Of Children, Suffering Without Grace Or Redemption, Ultimate And Eternal Loss. The Memory Of The Child Stayed With Him. But That Was Not To Be The End Of It, For Reality Went Around In A Twisting Ring. Even The Irredeemable Would Be Redeemed, And There Was A Balance For Everything. There Had To Be.

And If You Were A Spirit, And Time Did Not Bind You, And Patience And Love Were All You Knew, Then There You Would Wait For Someone To Return, And The Story To Unfold.

To Be Mad Is To Feel With Excruciating Intensity The Sadness And Joy Of A Time Which Has Not Arrived Or Has Already Been.

She Died On A Windy Gray Day In March When The Sky Was Full Of Darting Crows And The World Lay Prostrate And Defeated After Winter. Peter Lake Was At Her Side And It Ruined Him Forever. It Broke Him As He Had Not Ever Imagined He Could Have Been Broken. He Would Never Again Be Young, Or Able To Remember What It Was Like To Be Young. What He Had Once Taken To Be Pleasures Would Appear To Him In His Defeat As Hideous And Deserved Punishments For Reckless Vanity.

It Was A Good Speech, But The Reaction Was Due To The Fact That Politics Are Madness, And Even If One Does Not Know It, A Country In Electoral Season Experiences Flares Of Lunacy Like The Great Storms That Sometimes March Across The Golden Surface Of The Sun.