Every Real Story Is A Never Ending

My Will Can Control Anything That’s Empty.

People Never Seemed To Notice That, By Saving Time, They Were Losing Something Else. No One Cared To Admit That Life Was Becoming Ever Poorer, Bleaker And More Monotonous. The Ones Who Felt This Most Keenly Were The Children, Because No One Had Time For Them Any More. But Time Is Life Itself, And Life Resides In The Human Heart. And The More People Saved, The Less They Had.

Once Someone Dreams A Dream, It Can't Just Drop Out Of Existence. But If The Dreamer Can't Remember It, What Becomes Of It? It Lives On In Fantastica, Deep Under Earth. There Are Forgotten Dreams Stored In Many Layers. The Deeper One Digs, The Closer They Are. All Fantastica Rests On A Foundation Of Forgotten Dreams.

All That Matters In Life," The Grey Man Went On, "is To Climb The Ladder Of Success, Amount To Something, Own Things. When A Person Climbs Higher Than The Rest, Amounts To More, Owns More Things, Everything Else Comes Automatically: Friendship, Love, Respect, Et Cetera..." "isn't There Anyone Who Loves You?" Momo Whispered.

Bastian Had Climbed A Dune Of Purplish-red Sand And All Around Him He Saw Nothing But Hill After Hill Of Every Imaginable Color. Each Hill Revealed A Shade Or Tint That Occured In No Other. The Nearest Was Cobalt Blue, Another Was Saffron Yellow, Then Came Crimson Red, Then Indigo, Apple Green, Sky Blue, Orange, Peach, Mauve, Turquoise Blue, Lilac, Moss Green, Ruby Red, Burnt Umber, Indian Yellow, Vermillion, Lapis Lazuli, And So On From Horizon To Horizon. And Between The Hill, Separating Color From Color, Flowed Streams Of Gold And Silver Sand.