She Was The Sort Of Person For

But History Is A Faithless Teller Whose Cruel Recourse To Hindsight Makes Fools Of Its Actors.

And Then He Was Kissing Her, And She Was Struck By His Nearness, His Solidity, His Smell. It Was Of The Garden And The Earth And The Sun. When Cassandra Opened Her Eyes, She Realized She Was Crying. She Wasn't Sad, Though, These Were The Tears Of Being Found, Of Having Come Home After A Long Time Away.

She Says There Are Stories Everywhere And That People Who Wait For The Right One To Come Along Before Setting Pen To Paper End Up With Very Empty Pages.

It's A Funny Thing, Character, The Way It Brands People As They Age, Rising From Within To Leave Its Scar.

I Write What I'd Like To Read And Just Hope That, Along The Way, Others Might Like To Read Them, Too.