Length Is Usually Intensity. Not Time.

Who Claims Truth, Truth Abandons. History Is Hir'd, Or Coerc'd, Only In Interests That Must Ever Prove Base. She Is Too Innocent, To Be Left Within The Reach Of Anyone In Power,- Who Need But Touch Her, And All Her Credit Is In The Instant Vanish'd, As If It Had Never Been. She Needs Rather To Be Tended Lovingly And Honorably By Fabulists And Counterfeiters, Ballad-mongers And Cranks Of Ev'ry Radius, Masters Of Disguise To Provide Her The Costume, Toilette, And Bearing, And Speech Nimble Enough To Keep Her Beyond The Desires, Or Even The Curiosity, Of Government.

What’s This? What Are The Antagonists Doing Here – Infiltrating Their Own Audience? Well, They’re Not Really. It’s Somebody Else’s Audience At The Moment, And These Nightly Spectacles Are An Appreciable Part Of The Darkside Hours Of Life Of The Rocket Capital. The Chances For Any Paradox Here, Really, Are Less Than You Think.

Everybody Gets Told To Write About What They Know. The Trouble With Many Of Us Is That At The Earlier Stages Of Life We Think We Know Everything- Or To Put It More Usefully, We Are Often Unaware Of The Scope And Structure Of Our Ignorance.

A Weapon Based On Time . . ." Mused Viktor Mulciber. "well, Why Not? The One Force No One Knows How To Defeat, Resist, Or Reverse. It Kills All Forms Of Life Sooner Or Later. With A Time-weapon You Could Become The Most Feared Person In History." "i'd Rather Be Loved," Said Root. Mulciber Shrugged. "you're Young.

Let Me Be Unambiguous. I Prefer Not To Be Photographed.