Every Real Story Is A Never Ending

He Wanted To Be Loved For Being Just What He Was. In This Community Of Yskalnari There Was Harmony, But No Love. He No Longer Wanted To Be The Greatest, Strongest Or Cleverest. He Had Left All That Far Behind. He Longed To Be Loved Just As He Was, Good Or Bad, Handsome Or Ugly, Clever Or Stupid, With All His Faults - Or Possibly Because Of Them. But What Was He Actually? He No Longer Knew. So Much Have Been Given To Him In Fantastica, And Now, Among All These Gifts And Powers, He Could No Longer Find Himself.

And If Someone Felt That His Life Had Been An Utter Failure, And That He Himself Was Only One Among Millions Of Wholly Unimportant People Who Could Be Replaced As Easily As Broken Windowpanes, He Would Go And Pour Out His Heart To Momo. And, Even As He Spoke, He Would Come To Realize By Some Mysterious Means That He Was Absolutely Wrong: That There Was Only One Person Like Himself In The Whole World, And That, Consequently, He Mattered To The World In His Own Particular Way. Such Was Momo's Talent For Listening.

Lots Of Things Take Time, And Time Was Momo's Only Form Of Wealth.

Calendars And Clocks Exist To Measure Time, But That Signifies Little Because We All Know That An Hour Can Seem As Eternity Or Pass In A Flash, According To How We Spend It.

Strange As It May Seem, Horror Loses Its Power To Frighten When Repeated Too Often.