A Few Hundred Years Ago There Were

The Great Thing About Books Is That You Can End With A Question Mark.

I Am Fascinated By How People Eat And What It Reveals About Them.

Places Do Not Lose Their Identity, However Far One Travels. It Is The Heart That Begins To Erode Over Time. The Face In The Hotel Mirror Seems Blurred Some Mornings, As If By Too Many Casual Looks. By Ten The Sheets Will Be Laundered, The Carpet Swept. The Names On The Hotel Registers Change As We Pass. We Leave No Trace As We Pass On. Ghostlike, We Cast No Shadow.

Like A Domestic Cat, Purring On The Sofa By Day, But By Night, A Strutting Queen, A Natural Killer, Disdainful Of Her Other Life.

The Past Is An Obdurate Stranger That Puts As Many Marks On Us As We Attempt To Impose On It.