Scent Is Often Underestimated, When It Can

It's Too Late. It Was Too Late By The Time I Arrived In London To Turn Your Notebook Into A Dove; There Were Too Many People Already Involved. Anything Either Of Us Does Has An Effect On Everyone Here, On Every Patron Who Walks Through Those Gates. Hundreds If Not Thousands Of People. All Flies In A Spiderweb That Was Spun When I Was Six Years Old And Now I Can Barely Move For Fear Of Losing Someone Else.

I Believe You Have My Umbrella" He Says, Almost Out Of Breath But Wearing A Grin That Has Too Much Wolf In It To Be Properly Sheepish.

You Believe You Could Not Live With The Pain. Such Pain Is Not Lived With. It Is Only Endured. I Am Sorry.

You May Tell A Tale That Takes Up Residence In Someone's Soul, Becomes Their Blood And Self And Purpose. That Tale Will Move Them And Drive Them And Who Knows That They Might Do Because Of It, Because Of Your Words. That Is Your Role, Your Gift.

It's A Wonderful Sort Of Feeling When People Want To Spend More Time In A World You Created.