That which bestows value upon this book is not in the words, the stories, its lyric qualities, nor anything that anyone could say about it. Its precise meaning and value lies within you the reader, and nowhere else. It is a question mark, an apostrophe, a space between words... it is the expression of life for living rather than written words for reading. It is neither to be understood nor misunderstood, unless it is both and neither. It is a fire that dances upon gilded water, and the calm toes that nimbly tip toe upon a line in a fire which is not; a fire that laughs but does not consume, that consumes but does not exhume. It is a solitary shining ray cut as a hue hewn seen but dimly through the solitary cell of a soul exhumed and marred yet as if a babe still hooked; a humble jolt stilted in lapsed time, transfigured and bare to the blemish of eternity. It is a rite of life, and as life is, it is what you make of it.