Dustfinger Closed His Eyes And

Stories Never Really End...even If The Books Like To Pretend They Do. Stories Always Go On. They Don't End On The Last Page, Any More Than They Begin On The First Page.

When The Heart Craved Something So Forcefully, Then Reason Became Nothing But Helpless Observer.

When You Open A Book It's Like Going To The Theater First You See The Curtain Then It Is Pulled Aside And The Show Begins.

Sometimes Dustfinger Thought Basta's Constant Fear Of Curses And Sudden Disaster Probably Arose From His Terror Of The Darkness Within Himself, Which Made Him Assume That The Rest Of The World Must Be Exactly The Same.

The Night Breathed Through The Apartment Like A Dark Animal. The Ticking Of A Clock. The Groan Of A Floorboard As He Slipped Out Of His Room. All Was Drowned By Its Silence. But Jacob Loved The Night. He Felt It On His Skin Like A Promise. Like A Cloak Woven From Freedom And Danger.