. . . Companions Were To Be

Thinking Of Nothing. Trying To Think Of Nothing. Thinking Of Everything.

He Had The Vague Sense Of Standing On A Threshold, The Crossing Of Which Would Change Everything.

Curiosity Might Have Killed The Cat, But Little Girls Usually Fared Much Better.

A Twinge At The Edge Of Her Lips And She Continued, The Soft, Slow Lilt Of Recitation: "ancient Walls That Sing The Distant Hours.

The Stretch Of Years Leaves None Unmarked: The Blissful Sense Of Youthful Invincibility Peels Away And Responsibility Brings Its Weight To Bear.