People Who Travel Are Always Fugitives.

…you Guessed That Somewhere, In Heaven Knew What Country And What Guise, There Was Someone Who Was Part Of Your Body And Your Brain, And That Without Him You Were Lost, A Straw Blown By The Wind.

The Road To Manderley Lay Ahead. There Was No Moon. The Sky Above Our Heads Was Inky Black. But The Sky On The Horizon Was Not Dark At All. It Was Shot With Crimson, Like A Splash Of Blood. And The Ashes Blew Towards Us With The Salt Wind From The Sea.

From The Very First, I Knew That It Would Be So...i Smiled To Myself, And Said, "that -- And None Other.

Time Will Mellow It, Make It A Moment For Laughter. But Now It Was Not Funny, Now I Did Not Laugh. It Was Not The Future, It Was The Present. It Was Too Vivid And Too Real.

People Who Travel Are Always Fugitives.