The lamp shade was lit with the shadow of an enlarged hand feeling their hand over the energetic light it had proceeded to make appear. This was the room of Mary Gilbert, a child of eight years, bright blue eyes and blonde hair as gold and her mother Fransziska Gilbert, a courteous, fine old lady who cared for her child and various social gatherings when necessary. These two had just been in the midst of an upheaval. A tragic loss. It was September 1902 (the 4th) and it was 9:30 at night. In their cottage in the rural countryside, the wind blew and although one might expect a child to find this severley frightful Mary didn't but instead found it sincerely comforting and impeccably relaxing. She went to sleep in an instant, hoping to dream of putting all of the communication within her thoughts, the imaginative adventures she had, to a real dream, where she could live inside it, until disappointingly waking up to the world. At a moment's thought, after her mother had left the bedroom, she thought she could write some of her ideas down, her communications, her feelings, her everlasting...