Usually I Decide On What It Is

For When All Else Is Done, On­ly Words Re­main. Words En­dure.

What We Leave Behind In This Life Is The Memory Of Who We Were And What We Did. An Imprint, No More.

The Dead Leave Their Shadows, An Echo Of The Space Within Which Once They Lived. They Haunt Us, Never Fading Or Growing Older As We Do. The Loss We Grieve Is Not Just Their Futures But Our Own.

Love - True Love - Is A Precious Thing. It Is Painful, Uncomfortable, Makes Fools Of Us All, But It Is What Breathes Meaning And Color And Purpose Into Our Lives.

Too Often I Am Jealous And My Jealousy Leads Me To Say Things-things-that I Regret.