Contempt Mates Well With Pity.

A Myth Is More Powerful - And More Lasting - Than Reality.

We Get So Caught Up In What A Man Isn't. It's What He Is That Counts.

Home. It's Being New And Old All Rolled Into One. Measuring Your New Against Old Friends, Old Ways, Old Places, Knowing That As Long As The Old Survives, You Can Keep Changing As Much As You Want Without The Nightmare Of Waking Up To A Total Stranger.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.

Contempt Mates Well With Pity.