At 19, Everything Is Possible

A Newspaper Is Lumber Made Malleable. It Is Ink Made Into Words And Pictures. It Is Conceived, Born, Grows Up And Dies Of Old Age In A Day.

Death Is As Casual And Often As Unexpected As Birth. It Is As Difficult To Define Grief As Joy. Each Is Finite. Each Will Fade.

Autumn Carries More Gold In Its Pocket Than All The Other Seasons.

Books, I Found, Had The Power To Make Time Stand Still, Retreat Or Fly Into The Future.

Nothing Is As Far Away As One Minute Ago.