There are stories in me I have yet to tell, both ordinary and strange, both common and fantastic. Some come easy; some are from life; some are beyond the reach of ordinary senses, understood implicitly in our relations with the collective unconscious. I do not know what it will take for me to loose some of these, what psychology I must subscribe to that it will make sense to even me, who is the one relating the workings of this errant mind. Some of these are merely dreams that have filtered into my waking hour, some I cannot imagine from what source they originate. Some I wish not ever to tell.

It is work to tell them right, and perhaps that is the issue. Some are not worth the bother. Some I can tell you in few, mere words, some I do not think I have ever seen words arcane enough to describe them. The storyteller sifts through the hands of his consciousness that which can be told, that which matters enough that he relate, that which he cannot help but to speak: to keep what he can keep, and to wonder why we choose what we choose. These stories in me: I say to you that some do not yet exist, only the hope: a zero with an asterisk, whose footnote is yet to be written.

(I wonder how many stories have died, never spoken.)