He Cried That Night For

Consider The Word “time.” We Use So Many Phrases With It. Pass Time. Waste Time. Kill Time. Lose Time. In Good Time. About Time. Take Your Time. Save Time. A Long Time. Right On Time. Out Of Time. Mind The Time. Be On Time. Spare Time. Keep Time. Stall For Time. There Are As Many Expressions With “time” As There Are Minutes In A Day. But Once, There Was No Word For It At All. Because No One Was Counting. Then Dor Began. And Everything Changed.

First And Foremost, I Would Put A Massive National Emphasis On Illiteracy With Real Markers That You Could Measure And Real Efforts To Do A One-on-one Kind Of Tutoring Until Kids Can Get Up To Snuff On That.

I Give Myself A Good Cry If I Need It. But Then I Concentrate On The Good Things Still In My Life. I Don't Allow Myself Any More Self-pity Than That. A Little Each Every Morning, A Few Tears, And That's All.

As Long As We Can Love Each Other, And Remember The Feeling Of Love We Had, We Can Die Without Ever Really Going Away.

And In That Line Now Was A Whiskered Old Man, With A Linen Cap And A Crooked Nose, Who Waited In A Place Called The Stardust Band Shell To Share His Part Of The Secret Of Heaven: That Each Affects The Other And The Other Affects The Next, And The World Is Full Of Stories, But The Stories Are All One.