Ask Her What She Craved, And She'd

And Then She Thought That You Went On Living One Day After Another, And In Time You Were Somebody Else, Your Previous Self Only Like A Close Relative, A Sister Or Brother, With Whom You Shared A Past. But A Different Person, A Separate Life. Certainly Neither She Nor Inman Were The People They Had Been The Last Time They Were Together. And She Believed Maybe She Liked Them Both Better Now.

We Mark Some Days As Fair, Some As Foul, Because We Do Not See That The Character Of Every Day As Identical

All I Can Say Is That We Are Mistaken To Gouge Such A Deep Rift In History That The Things Old Men And Old Women Know Have Become So Useless As To Be Not Worth Passing On To Grandchildren.

From My Childhood, I Remember A Tiny Old Woman Named Mary, Made Pale And Almost Translucent By Time. Mary's Childhood Memories Extended Back To The Confusing And Violent Finale Of The Civil War, And She Told Stories Of Brutal Murders In Those Days And Refused To Name Some Of The Killers, As If Dead Men Might Still Be Prosecuted In The Late 1950s.

When All Else Is Lost And Gone Forever, There Is Yearning. Only Desire Trumps Time.