It Was Such A Pleasure To Sink

But Happiness ... Happiness Grows At Our Own Firesides," She Said. "it Is Not To Be Picked In Strangers' Gardens." ~ The House At Riverton

Life Could Be Cruel Enough These Days Without The Truth Making It Worse.

It Is A Cruel, Ironical Art, Photography. The Dragging Of Captured Moments Into The Future; Moments That Should Have Been Allowed To Be Evaporate Into The Past; Should Exist Only In Memories, Glimpsed Through The Fog Of Events That Came After. Photographs Force Us To See People Before Their Future Weighed Them Down.

She'd Slept Terribly The Night Before. The Room, The Bed, Were Both Comfortable Enough, But She'd Been Plagued With Strange Dreams, The Sort That Lingered Upon Waking But Slithered Away From Memory As She Tried To Grasp Them. Only The Tendrils Of Discomfort Remained.

True Love, It's Like An Illness. I Never Understood It Before. In Books And Plays. Poems. I Never Understood What Drove Otherwise Intelligent, Right-thinking People To Do Such Extravagant, Irrational Things. Now I Do. It's An Illness. You Can Catch It When You Least Expect. There's No Known Cure. And Sometimes, In Its Most Extreme, It's Fatal.