“Sometimes I will stand on a little stone bridge near my house and stare at the slowly moving water flowing down on its course to the mighty Mississippi, just as I had learned from King Sigmus as he would stare into the Silverburn on those dim, twilight nights beneath the firmament. The river meanders, just like my mind, sometimes slowly, even just a trickle. Sometimes I will stare at the water until my mind should become detached from all the anxieties and worries of my simple, but wonderful little life. The tiny brook flows so slowly, with such purpose, always changing, but never the same, and the water would flow away from me, draining me of my worries like the melody of a gentle voice calling and calling, until I would be dry. And if I watched the water long enough, I would hear the sound of faint echoes of forgotten memories, fragments of memories, trying to return, at first faintly, but slowly coming forth from against the stream, fighting like the majestic salmon until I would capture it . . .for such are the memories of my soul.
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