So a hole in their parchment opens, and suddenly, in a vast dereliction of sunlight, there's that island known to the traveller trollope and the fellow traveller froude for making nothing, not even a people. The jet's shadow ripples over green jungles as steadily as a minnow through seaweed. Our sunlight is shared by Rome and your white paper, Joseph. Here, as everywhere else, it is the same age. In cities, in settlements of mud. Light has never had epochs