Yet even as the wind stirs your petals, flowers fall. My flowers are eternal, my songs live forever. I lift them in offering; I, a singer. I cast them to the wind, I spill them. The flowers become gold, they come to dwell inside the palace of eternity.

I&#39;ve always been slightly afraid of coming out with my record because it&#39;s so personal to me. Now it doesn&#39;t feel as frightening as I thought it would.

I succumbed to the lure of the oracle, he thought.   And he sensed that succumbing to this lure might be to fix himself upon a single-track life. Could it be, he wondered, that the oracle didn't tell the future? Could it be that the oracle made the future?

Written By Frank Herbert

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