We Are Not Meant To Know The

They Were On The Side Of The Angels, Even If The Angels Weren't Entirely Sure That This Was A Good Thing.

There Are People Whose Eyes You Must Avoid, Whose Attention You Must Not Draw To Yourself. They Are Strange, Parasitic Creatures, Lost Souls Seeking To Stretch Across The Abyss And Make Fatal Contact With The Warm, Constant Flow Of Humanity. They Live In Pain, And Exist Only To Visit That Pain On Others. A Random Glance, The Momentary Lingering Of A Look, Is Enough To Give Them The Excuse That They Seek. Sometimes, It Is Better To Keep Your Eyes On The Gutter For The Fear That, By Looking Up, You Might Catch A Glimpse Of Them, Black Shapes Against The Sun, And Be Blinded Forever.

And David Saw Himself Reflected In The Woodsman's Eyes, And There He Was No Longer Old But A Young Man, For A Man Is Always His Father's Child No Matter How Old He Is Or How Long They Have Been Apart.

Each Man Dreams His Own Heaven.

The Detective Was Different. Not That He Wasn't A Good Man; Willie Had Heard Enough About Him To Understand That He Was The Kind Who Didn't Like To Turn Away From Another's Pain, The Kind Who Couldn't Put A Pillow Over His Ears To Drown Out The Cries Of Strangers. Those Scars He Had Were Badges Of Courage, And Willie Knew That There Were Others Hidden Beneath His Clothes, And Still More Deep Inside, Right Beneath The Skin And Down To The Soul. No, It Was Just That Whatever Goodness Was There Coexisted With Rage And Grief And Loss.