A Baby Was A Fact. It Was

This Ravishing World. This Achingly Bittersweet, Ravishing World.

The World Was A World Of Dreaming Souls Who Could Not Die.

When You Write, You Take The Ball And You Hold It Up To The Light And You Turn It Slowly, And Let People Draw Their Own Conclusions. And Try To Bring Empathy To All Sides Of The Equation.

There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.

A Thousand Recollected Lives Were Passing Through Her, A Thousand Stories - Of Love And Work, Of Parents And Children, Of Duty And Joy And Grief. Beds Slept In And Meals Eaten, And The Bliss And Pain Of The Body, And A View Of Summer Leaves From A Window On A Morning It Had Rained; The Nights Of Loneliness And The Nights Of Love, The Soul In It's Body Keeping Always Longing To Be Known.