As this world has evolved, there have been prophets and there have been so-called prophets. Some have had their names and philosophies affixed to plaques and great seats of mankind itself. Others see their epiphanies muted by perceptions and expediency. Some have had their messages revered and respected and others, without intent, have fertilized the minds and souls of millions without anyone ever knowing their names. A prophet does not need to foretell the future. He may not know what will occur at any time in the days to come. He must only tell a story that lifts, educates, explains or even exemplifies.
The Prophet of the L Line, as he was called, was such an individual. He was an exquisite sketcher of Man, encapsulating each individual in his art. In my travels with him I noted that he also told stories. This is what he did. It was a career, a calling. As much as his art nourished life, his stories reveled in life. If he were warm, you would fan him fastidiously. If he were cold you provided him your coat and if he were thirsty, you presented him with liquid. So omany lives have been touched by him and those have touched other lives.
This then is his book of stories as I remember them. My attempt is to set down on paper his legacy, taking no responsibility nor glory in its placement.