That Which Is Imagined Can Never Be

The World Had Seen So Many Ages: The Age Of Enlightenment; Of Reformation; Of Reason. Now, At Last, The Age Of Desire. And After This, An End To Ages; An End, Perhaps, To Everything.

Walk With Care In Dark Places, And Do Not Put Your Faith In Anyone Who Promises You The Forgiveness Of The Lord Or A Certain Place In Paradise.

Nothing Ever Begins. There Is No First Moment; No Single Word Or Place From Which This Or Any Story Springs. The Threads Can Always Be Traced Back To Some Earlier Tale, And The Tales That Preceded That; Though As The Narrator's Voice Recedes The Connections Will Seem To Grow More Tenuous, For Each Age Will Want The Tale Told As If It Were Of Its Own Making.

With The Inevitability Of A Tongue Returning To Probe A Painful Tooth, We Come Back And Back And Back Again To Our Fears, Sitting To Talk Them Over With The Eagerness Of A Hungry Man Before A Full And Steaming Plate.

Memory, Prophecy, And Fantasy— The Past, The Future, And The Dreaming Moment Between— Are All In One Country, Living One Immortal Day. To Know That Is Wisdom. To Use It Is The Art.