This book of Nostredame was essential in remembering the foot ladder, which I have tread as an add-er. The trace was hard to lace sometimes, to tie off ends that gave me a grace, but were not a complete race. I won't be anywhere without dead ends. They let me hide and collide. This book is for my daughter, for her I would be gone farther. Actually, I don't think I would have made it as a birder if her grace hadn't required my mace. I protect the delicate. In that I am a father. I could not allow her this fate. She is style and grace, all that I am not. I am just lethal in a box. Nostredame was a bait, literally of fate: Pandora's box of rocks, agony and ecstasy. Their stones are still getting thrown. I wish only for the grey line inn between. All research gathered, written, categorized, de-coded, published by Iona Costello, formerly Iona Mereenie Malcolmson of Shelter Island: the mal has come.