He Wept, And It Felt As If

The Writer After All Is Only Half The Book, The Other Half Is The Reader.

I Have Learned Over The Course Of My Many Years That It Is A Bad Idea, Usually, To Investigate Piteous Weeping But Always A Fine Thing To Look Into A Giggle.

And It Was Lonely, To Yearn, All Alone.

The Community Of The Giver Had Achieved At Such Great Price. A Community Without Danger Or Pain. But Also, A Community Without Music, Color Or Art. And Books.

What If They Were Allowed To Choose Their Own Mate? And Chose Wrong?