Memory Is A Cruel Mistress With Whom

Doors Lead To Things And I've Never Met One I Haven't Wanted To Open.

Percy Climbed The First Step, Then The Next, Remembering The Thousands Of Times She'd Run Through The Door, In A Hurry To Get To The Future, To Whatever Was Coming Next, To This Moment.

He Had The Vague Sense Of Standing On A Threshold, The Crossing Of Which Would Change Everything.

Even The Most Pragmatic Person Fell Victim At Times To A Longing For Something Other.

She Hadn't Wanted To Be Loved Carefully, Only Well.