Lots Of Things Take Time, And Time

One May Enter The Literary Parlor Via Just About Any Door, Be It The Prison Door, The Madhouse Door, Or The Brothel Door. There Is But One Door One May Not Enter It Through, Which Is The Child Room Door. The Critics Will Never Forgive You Such. The Great Rudyard Kipling Is One Of A Number Of People To Have Suffered From This. I Keep Wondering To Myself What This Peculiar Contempt Towards Anything Related To Childhood Is All About.

The Nothing Is Spreading," Groaned The First. "it's Growing And Growing, There's More Of It Every Day, If It's Possible To Speak Of More Nothing. All The Others Fled From Howling Forest In Time, But We Didn't Want To Leave Our Home. The Nothing Caught Us In Our Sleep And This Is What It Did To Us." "is It Very Painful?" Atreyu Asked. "no," Said The Second Bark Troll, The One With The Hole In His Chest. "you Don't Feel A Thing. There's Just Something Missing. And Once It Gets Hold Of You, Something More Is Missing Every Day. Soon There Won't Be Anything Left Of Us.

My Will Can Control Anything That’s Empty.

There Were Doors That Looked Like Large Keyholes, Others That Resembled The Entrances To Caves, There Were Golden Doors, Some Were Padded And Some Were Studded With Nails, Some Were Paper-thin And Others As Thick As The Doors Of Treasure Houses; There Was One That Looked Like A Giant's Mouth And Another That Had To Be Opened Like A Drawbridge, One That Suggested A Big Ear And One That Was Made Of Gingerbread, One That Was Shaped Like An Oven Door, And One That Had To Be Unbuttoned.

But That Is Another Story And Shall Be Told Another Time.