Out of a somewhat chosen obscurity I come to write this book-You have urged the work upon me, and now I must do it or not do it-the blinding vulgarities of reality rush in and scream a stifling "Halt!" yet a soft inner voice whispers "Go on, and do it" while echoic laughter follows, indescribable. Her voice reaches me from some great and interior beyond- "We are writing books..." The plans to bring this to fruition have long since faded, and then they died with her yet the urging has not died and I find myself with this strange necessity...
Snowstorm in a cornfield.
That is all.