A Babe At The Breast Is As

Arthur, Their Young King, Like A Hero Out Of Legend.

And So, Perhaps, The Truth Winds Somewhere Between The Road To Glastonbury, Isle Of The Priests, And The Road To Avalon, Lost Forever In The Mists Of The Summer Sea.

Rome Was Mud And Smoky Skies; The Rank Smell Of The Tiber And The Exotically Spiced Cooking Fires Of A Hundred Different Nationalities. Rome Was White Marble And Gilding And Heady Perfumes; The Blare Of Trumpets And The Shrieking Of Market-women And The Eternal, Sub-aural Hum Of More People, Speaking More Languages Than Gaius Had Ever Imagined Existed, Crammed Together On Seven Hills Whose Contours Had Long Ago Disappeared Beneath This Encrustation If Humanity. Rome Was The Pulsing Heart Of The World.

Magic Is A Matter Of Focusing The Disciplined Will. But Sometimes The Will Must Be Abandoned. The Secret Lies In Knowing When To Exercise Control, And When To Let Go.

The Goddess Does Not Shower Her Gifts On Those Who Reject Them.