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They come from miles around, these stories do, traveling the great distance from the fringes of my minds eye, some even making the long and arduous haul from my childhood, just to sit and talk. They do this whenever I'm alone. Some are fresh meat, the rest lifers, each easily spotted by the differences in their appearance and the strength of their voices. Fresh meats are gossamers-newly formed stories, little more than a stack of ideas-who shout in whispers. Lifers, on the other hand, are as fleshed out as clear as memories, perhaps even more so, who have acquired the proper pitch and turn of...