A Weeping Woman Is A Bucket With

Hope Is Like A Piece Of String When You’re Drowning; It Just Isn’t Enough To Get You Out By Itself.

Any Day You Wake Up, Maybe You Die.

You Could Weave Silk From Pig Bristles Before You Could Make A Man Anything But A Man.

Wounds To The Pride Are Remembered Long After Wounds To The Flesh.

The Wheel Of Time Turns, And Ages Come And Pass, Leaving Memories That Become Legend. Legend Fades To Myth, And Even Myth Is Long Forgotten When The Age That Gave It Birth Comes Again. In One Age, Called The Third Age By Some, An Age Yet To Come, An Age Long Past, A Wind Rose In The Mountains Of Mist. The Wind Was Not The Beginning. There Are Neither Beginnings Nor Endings To The Turning Of The Wheel Of Time. But It Was A Beginning.