Without A Past You Can't Have A

If You Stop To Think About It, You’ll Have To Admit That All The Stories In The World Consist Essentially Of Twenty-six Letters. The Letters Are Always The Same, Only The Arrangement Varies. From Letters Words Are Formed, From Words Sentences, From Sentences Chapters, And From Chapters Stories.

Bastian Had Climbed A Dune Of Purplish-red Sand And All Around Him He Saw Nothing But Hill After Hill Of Every Imaginable Color. Each Hill Revealed A Shade Or Tint That Occured In No Other. The Nearest Was Cobalt Blue, Another Was Saffron Yellow, Then Came Crimson Red, Then Indigo, Apple Green, Sky Blue, Orange, Peach, Mauve, Turquoise Blue, Lilac, Moss Green, Ruby Red, Burnt Umber, Indian Yellow, Vermillion, Lapis Lazuli, And So On From Horizon To Horizon. And Between The Hill, Separating Color From Color, Flowed Streams Of Gold And Silver Sand.

A Story Can Be New And Yet Tell About Olden Times. The Past Comes Into Existence With The Story.

Calendars And Clocks Exist To Measure Time, But That Signifies Little Because We All Know That An Hour Can Seem As Eternity Or Pass In A Flash, According To How We Spend It.

What I've Started I Must Finish. I've Gone Too Far To Turn Back. Regardless Of What May Happen, I Have To Go Forward.