A Stray Fact: Insects Are Not Drawn

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

If She Were Religious, She Would Call It The Soul. It Is More Than The Sum Of Her Intellect And Her Emotions, More Than The Sum Of Her Experiences, Though It Runs Like Veins Of Brilliant Metal Through All Three. It Is An Inner Faculty That Recognizes The Animating Mysteries Of The World Because It Is Made Of The Same Substance

He's One Of Those Smart, Drifty Young People Who, After Certain Deliberations, Decides He Wants To Do Something In The Arts But Won't, Possibly Can't, Think In Terms Of An Actual Job; Who Seems To Imagine That Youth And Brains And Willingness Will Simply Summon An Occupation, The Precise And Perfect Nature Of Which Will Reveal Itself In Its Own Time.

Love Is Deep, A Mystery - Who Wants To Understand Its Every Particular?

Yes," She Answers And Does Not Move. She Might, At This Moment, Be Nothing But A Floating Intelligence; Not Even A Brain Inside A Skull, Just A Presence That Perceives, As A Ghoast Might. Yes, She Thinks, This Is Probably How It Must Feel To Be A Ghost. It's A Little Like Reading, Isn't It-that Same Sensation Of Knowing People, Settings, Situations, Without Playing Any Particular Part Beyond That Of The Willing Observer.