Those Who Live In Memories Are Never

I Am Not A Storyteller . . . Not Like The Others. I Only Have One Tale To Tell.

The Prospect Of An Early Death Sits Differently Upon Each Person. In Some It Gifts Maturity Far Outweighing Their Age And Experience: Calm Acceptance Blossoms Into A Beautiful Nature And Soft Countenance. In Others, However, It Leads To The Formation Of A Tiny Ice Flint In Their Heart. Ice That, Though At Times Concealed, Never Properly Melts. Rose, Though She Would Have Liked To Be One Of The Former, Knew Herself Deep Down To Be One Of The Latter.

After All, It's The Librarian's Sworn Purpose To Bring Books Together With Their One True Reader.

I Write What I'd Like To Read And Just Hope That, Along The Way, Others Might Like To Read Them, Too.

His Words Had Tossed The Book That Was Her Life Into The Air And The Pages Had Been Blown Into Disarray, Could Never Be Put Back Together To Tell The Same Story.