Thomas Kinkade The Light of Freedom

Thomas Kinkade The Light of FreedomThomas Kinkade The Hour of PrayerThomas Kinkade The Heart of San Francisco
looked around him. Nothing but flat rock and sand stretched away on every side.
"Don't you get the sun everywhere all the time?" he said.
"But it's much more important in the morning," said St. Ungulant. "Besides, Angus says we ought to have a patio."
"He could barbecue on it," said Om, inside Brutha's head.
"Um," said course that rather spoils the whole thing."
"Er . . . but there's . . . Angus?" said Brutha, stating at the spot where he believed Angus to be, or at least where he believed St. Ungulant believed Angus to be.
"He's over here now," said the saint sharply, pointing to a different part of the wheel. "But he doesn't do any of the herming. He's not, you know, trained. He's just company. My word, I'd have gone quite mad if it wasn't for Angus cheering me up all the time!"
"Yes . . . I expect you would," said Brutha. He smiled at the empty air, in order to show willing.Brutha. "What . . . religion . . . are you a saint of, exactly?"An expression of embarrassment crossed the very small amount of face between St. Ungulant's eyebrows and his mustache."Uh. None, really. That was all rather a mistake," he said. "My parents named me Sevrian Thaddeus Ungulant, and then one day, of course, most amusing, someone drew attention to the initials. After that, it all seemed rather inevitable."The wheel rocked slightly. St. Ungulant's skin was almost blackened by the desert sun."I've had to pick up herming as I went along, of course," he said. "I taught myself. I'm entirely selftaught. You can't find a hermit to teach you herming, because of