What will become of us, we the children of the broken dream? What we imagined could never come to pass, not in all the ages of the world. What we desired was the sun and the moon to move out of their orbits and revolve around our own little spheres of being. I know that there are childhood wishes that are easy enough to shed when childhood passes (though that may come late for some of us), but what of us who have dreamed mad dreams? Who have desired the wild things, not of this world? Hm. I must think on this. It is perhaps that there is not meaning plain in all things, that sometimes the "why" is angled away from the main point. We of the psychic outlands, let us hope there is reason somehow to our divergences: if not in the obvious face of the matters, somewhere we may yet realize.
