My Fingers Positively Itched To Drift At

But Everyone's An Expert With The Virtue Of Hindsight . . . .

In Retrospect, It Seems Like Everything In My Life Led To Me Becoming A Writer. I Just Didn't Realise It At The Time.

Percy Climbed The First Step, Then The Next, Remembering The Thousands Of Times She'd Run Through The Door, In A Hurry To Get To The Future, To Whatever Was Coming Next, To This Moment.

She'd Slept Terribly The Night Before. The Room, The Bed, Were Both Comfortable Enough, But She'd Been Plagued With Strange Dreams, The Sort That Lingered Upon Waking But Slithered Away From Memory As She Tried To Grasp Them. Only The Tendrils Of Discomfort Remained.

Cassandra Wondered At The Mind's Cruel Ability To Toss Up Flecks Of The Past. Why, As She Neared Her Life's End, Her Grandmother's Head Should Ring With The Voices Of People Long Since Gone. Was It Always This Way? Did Those With Passage Booked On Death's Silent Ship Always Scan The Dock For Faces Of The Long-departed?