No One Knew About The Squirrel’s Skull

He Would Work Through The Night And Sleep Until Lunch. There Wasn't Really Much Else To Do. Make Something, And Die.

Above All, She Wanted To Look As Though She Had Not Given The Matter A Moment's Thought, And That Would Take Time.

In Leon's Account Of His Life, No-one Was Mean-spirited, No-one Schemed Or Lied Or Betrayed; Everyone Was Celebrated At Least In Some Degree... Leon Turned Out To Be A Spineless, Grinning Idiot.

A Story Was A Form Of Telepathy. By Means Of Inking Symbols Onto A Page, She Was Able To Send Thoughts And Feelings From Her Mind To Her Reader's. It Was A Magical Process, So Commonplace That No One Stopped To Wonder At It.

Twenty Years Ago I Might Have Hired A Professional Listener, But Somewhere Along The Way I Had Lost Faith In The Talking Cure. A Genteel Fraud In My View.