Everything Is Surprising, Rightly Seen.

Human Beings Love Stories Because They Safely Show Us Beginnings, Middles And Ends.

Once Upon A Time, When Men And Women Hurtled Through The Air On Metal Wings, When They Wore Webbed Feet And Walked On The Bottom Of The Sea, Learning The Speech Of Whales And The Songs Of The Dolphins, When Pearly-fleshed And Jewelled Apparitions Of Texan Herdsmen And Houris Shimmered In The Dusk On Nicaraguan Hillsides, When Folk In Norway And Tasmania In Dead Of Winter Could Dream Of Fresh Strawberries, Dates, Guavas And Passion Fruits And Find Them Spread Next Morning On Their Tables, There Was A Woman Who Was Largely Irrelevant, And Therefore Happy.

The Reading Eye Must Do The Work To Make Them Live, And So It Did, Again And Again, Never The Same Life Twice, As The Artist Had Intended.

Think Of This - That The Writer Wrote Alone, And The Reader Read Alone, And They Were Alone With Each Other.

…my Solitude Is My Treasure, The Best Thing I Have.