People Might Think Writing Is A Hard

Darling Girl, Blinded By Foolish Thoughts Of Love. How To Tell Her That The Hearts Of Men Were Not So Easily Won. If Won, Rarely Kept.

It Was Such A Pleasure To Sink One's Hands Into The Warm Earth, To Feel At One's Fingertips The Possibilities Of The New Season.

Cassandra Wondered At The Mind's Cruel Ability To Toss Up Flecks Of The Past. Why, As She Neared Her Life's End, Her Grandmother's Head Should Ring With The Voices Of People Long Since Gone. Was It Always This Way? Did Those With Passage Booked On Death's Silent Ship Always Scan The Dock For Faces Of The Long-departed?

She Was The Breeze On A Summer's Day, The First Drops Of Rain When The Earth Was Parched, Light From The Evening Star.

The Happiest Folk Are Those That Are Busy, For Their Minds Are Starved Of Time To Seek Out Woe.