Tell Him I Hate Him To His

It Was In A Way A Comforting Idea; If There Was All The Time In The World, Then The Happenings Of A Given Moment Became Less Important.

What A Mystery Blood Was -- How Did A Tiny Gesture, A Tome Of Voice, Endure Through Generations Like The Harder Verities Of Flesh? He Had Seen It Again And Again, Watching His Nieces And Nephews Grow, And Accepted Without Thought The Ehoes Of Parent And Grandparent That Appeared For Brief Moments. The Shadow Of A Face Looking Back Through The Years -- That Vanished Again Into The Face That Was Now.

There Was A Feeling, Not Sudden, But Complete, As Though I Had Been Given A Small Object To Hold Unseen In My Hands. Precious As Opal, Smooth As Jade, Weighty As A River Stone, More Fragile Than A Bird's Egg. Infinitely Still, Live As The Root Of Creation. Not A Gift, But A Trust. Fiercely To Cherish, Softly To Guard. The Words Spoke Themselves And Disappeared Into The Groined Shadows Of The Roof.

Well I Am Still Not Drunk" I Straightened Up Against The Pillows As Best I Could. "you Told Me Once That If You Could Still Stand Up, You Weren't Drunk." You Aren't Standing Up." He Point Out. You Are.

There Were Moments, Of Course. Those Small Spaces In Time, Too Soon Gone, When Everything Seems To Stand Still, And Existence Is Balanced On A Perfect Point, Like The Moment Of Change Between The Dark And The Light, And When Both And Neither Surround You.