In My Writing, I Want To Be

We Can’t Always Tell The Whole Story About Ourselves.

English Words Are Like Prisms. Empty, Nothing Inside, And Still They Make Rainbows.

That World! These Days It's All Been Erased And They've Rolled It Up Like A Scroll And Put It Away Somewhere. Yes, I Can Touch It With My Fingers. But Where Is It?

Memories Assailed Him Of How Gently She Had Spoken, Touched, And Moved; Of How She'd Loved Him Fiercely Despite His Mistakes And Obsessions And Weaknesses. And The Conviction Descended On Him That Love Like Theirs Couldn't Possibly Suffer Any Change.

This Life Is But The Childhood Of Our Immortality.