Looking From The Window At The Fantastic

Every Moment Was A Precious Thing, Having In It The Essence Of Finality.

The Peace Of Manderley. The Quietude And The Grace. Whoever Lived Within Its Walls, Whatever Trouble There Was And Strife, However Much Uneasiness And Pain, No Matter What Tears Were Shed, What Sorrows Borne, The Peace Of Manderley Could Not Be Broken Or The Loveliness Destroyed.

The Trouble Is, Walking In Venice Becomes Compulsive Once You Start. Just Over The Next Bridge, You Say, And Then The Next One Beckons.

How Lacking In Intuition Men Could Be In Persuading Themselves That Mending Some Stranger's Socks, And Attending To His Comfort, Could Content A Woman.

From The Very First, I Knew That It Would Be So...i Smiled To Myself, And Said, "that -- And None Other.