Pulling bodies out of the cockpit, stone bodies out of the stone fields,
these stones are the bodies of ancient stonemen. The ancient stone
sprites, that's what happened to the druids — someone cast the wrong
spell, they all turned to stone, standing stones standing around. They
are the druids!

Somewhere there is this book full of information, diagrams, drawings, and
so forth. The impossible book, that satisfies every mood and takes me out
of myself where I want to go. The thing I like the most, and my life is a
continuing pageant of this, is to lose myself in something. Movie, book,
video game, music, girl, writing.

What's the point of even having myself if I'm always trying to lose me?
To shuck off the adult in me, to peel off the rigid skins, the congealed
cataracts of soul, to go souling over the cataracts in a skinboat.
Sailing the cataracts of sin in a skinboat!

The impossible book is the universe, the universal library, the endless
shifting proto-book of the Heavens. It will never exist here. The best I
can do is various works which suggest it in some of their permutations.
Shadows of the Proto-Book. Shadows of the Heavenbook. The poetry of the
universe. The poetics of things.

And so forth. Make peace with that, go forward and glean mindsheaves. A
giant field? What if I labored all my life to produce one little flower?
What if all my work vanished in an instant and all that was left, three
lines of exquisite beauty which healed all sickness, settled all
disputes, and enlightened all minds! That'd be kinda funny.