Those Who Live In Memories

I Probably Coughed Self-pityingly In Response, Little Aware That I Was About To Cross A Tremendous Threshold Beyond Which There Would Be No Return, That In My Hands I Held An Object Whose Simple Appearance Belied Its Profound Power. All True Readers Have A Book, A Moment, Like The One I Describe, And When Mum Offered Me That Much-read Library Copy Mine Was Upon Me.

Reluctance To Begin Is Quick To Befriend Procrastination. . . .

It Is A Cruel, Ironical Art, Photography. The Dragging Of Captured Moments Into The Future; Moments That Should Have Been Allowed To Be Evaporate Into The Past; Should Exist Only In Memories, Glimpsed Through The Fog Of Events That Came After. Photographs Force Us To See People Before Their Future Weighed Them Down.

Better To Lose Oneself In Action Than To Wither In Despair.

She Was The Breeze On A Summer's Day, The First Drops Of Rain When The Earth Was Parched, Light From The Evening Star.