One Of The Injustices Of

One Of The Injustices Of The World Was That It Was So Easy To Make The Innocent And Caring Ones Happy With So Little.

Books Have Become Products, Like Cereal Or Perfume Or Deodorant.

It's The Centuries, Scarlett Darling. All The Life Lived There, All The Joy And All The Sorrow, All The Feasts And Battles, They're In The Air Around And The Land Beneath You. It's Time, Years Beyond Our Counting Weighing Without Weight On The Earth. You Cannot See It Or Smell It Or Hear It Or Touch It, But You Feel It Brushing Your Skin And Speaking Without Sound. Time. And Mystery.

Should-haves Solve Nothing. It's The Next Thing To Happen That Needs Thinking About.

You Belong With Me, Scarlett, Haven't You Figured That Out? And The World Is Where We Belong, All Of It. We're Not Home-and-hearth People. We're The Adventurers, The Buccaneers, The Blockade Runners. Without Challenge, We're Only Half Alive. We Can Go Anywhere, And As Long As We're Together, It Will Belong To Us. But, My Pet, We'll Never Belong To It. That's For Other People, Not For Us.