There Is No Doubt That

Old Age Is An Ordeal, Of Flesh And Mind. Of Winding Down, Of Slowing Down, Of Dying Cells. It's Accepting The Loss Of Physical Attractiveness And Replacing It With The Power And Wisdom That Can Only Come With Old Age.

Perfection, In Anything, Is Unbearably Dull. Myself, I Prefer A Touch Of Imperfection.

Truly God Was Good, To Make Man So Blind.

The Bird With The Thorn In Its Breast, It Follows An Immutable Law; It Is Driven By It Knows Not What To Impale Itself, And Die Singing. At The Very Instant The Thorn Enters There Is No Awareness In It Of The Dying To Come; It Simply Sings And Sings Until There Is Not The Life Left To Utter Another Note. But We, When We Put The Thorns In Our Breasts, We Know. We Understand. And Still We Do It. Still We Do It.

In The Touch, The Love Scenes Are The Same As They Were In The Thorn Birds Or Anything Else Ive Ever Written. I Find A Way Of Saying That Either It Was Heaven Or Hell But In A Way That Still Leaves Room For The Reader To Use Their Own Imagination.