I Am A Religious Person, Although I

Sticks And Stones, I'll Break Yer Bones, But Names Ain't Worth A Quarrel.

On A Cold, Fretful Afternoon In Early October, 1872, A Hansom Cab Drew Up Outside The Offices Of Lockhart And Selby, Shipping Agents, In The Financial Heart Of London, And A Young Girl Got Out And Paid The Driver. She Was A Person Of Sixteen Or So--alone, And Uncommonly Pretty. She Was Slender And Pale, And Dressed In Mourning, With A Black Bonnet Under Which She Tucked Back A Straying Twist Of Blond Hair That The Wind Had Teased Loose. She Had Unusually Dark Brown Eyes For One So Fair. Her Name Was Sally Lockhart; And Within Fifteen Minutes, She Was Going To Kill A Man.

Well, I Have An Idea, Usually A Visual Image Of Some Sort. A Setting. A Particular, I Don't Know, Urban Scene, A Particular Time Of Day. Something That Grips My Imagination For Some Reason.

Once Upon A Time' Lasts Forever.

Marisa! Marisa!” The Cry Was Torn From Lord Asriel, And With The Snow Leopard Beside Her, With A Roaring In Her Ears, Lyra’s Mother Stood And Found Her Footing And Leapt With All Her Heart, To Hurl Herself Against The Angel And Her Daemon And Her Dying Lover, And Seize Those Beating Wings, And Bear Them All Down Together Into The Abyss.