Contemptlation of the one. The flame at the center of life. Beginning and end. No beginning, no end.

It's my birfday.

The children huddled around the flame, discussing what was to be done. One suggested that the only possible route was violence, the violence of the oppressed masses against their oppressor. Another suggested that they might take more subtle means of gaining control of the classroom, gain partisans. The teacher came in, and they blew out the candle, acting as though nothing had happened.

Every child around the cake wished that it was his birthday, that he could be the center of everyone's attention, that he could be the cause and object of the gathering. Alas, only one child could be the recipient of this honor.

"Omo gana doro di," intoned the blonde boy, summoning from the depths of his soul the occult forces that dwelled there...

Dorris stared at her son, Frank, a five year old who had all the self-knowledge of a porcupine. She lit a cigarette and thought about killing him. This was not the first time. In fact, she had thought about this since he was born, seven years ago. She had bought him one candle because all of her time since that day was a single blur, one long, drawn out parade of drudgery. She would not kill him now, as she had not in the past, but the thought of it made