The Future Is An Opaque Mirror. Anyone

Death Is As Casual And Often As Unexpected As Birth. It Is As Difficult To Define Grief As Joy. Each Is Finite. Each Will Fade.

A Newspaper Is Lumber Made Malleable. It Is Ink Made Into Words And Pictures. It Is Conceived, Born, Grows Up And Dies Of Old Age In A Day.

The Reporter Is The Daily Prisoner Of Clocked Facts. On All Working Days, He Is Expected To Do His Best In One Swift Swipe At Each Story.

Autumn Carries More Gold In Its Pocket Than All The Other Seasons.

Books, I Found, Had The Power To Make Time Stand Still, Retreat Or Fly Into The Future.