She Did As She Felt, And She

Those Who Live In Memories Are Never Really Dead." The House At Riverton

Round And Round The Questions Flew, Until Finally I Found Myself Standing At The Open Door Of A Bookshop. It’s Natural In Times Of Great Perplexity, I Think, To Seek Out The Familiar, And The High Shelves And Long Rows Of Neatly Lined-up Spines Were Immensely Reassuring. Amid The Smell Of Ink And Binding, The Dusty Motes In Beams Of Strained Sunlight, The Embrace Of Warm, Tranquil Air, I Felt That I Could Breathe More Easily.

For It Is Said, You Know, That A Letter Will Always Seek A Reader; That Sooner Or Later, Like It Or Not, Words Have A Way Of Finding The Light, Of Making Their Secrets Known.

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

She Doesn't Know I Cry For The Changing Times. That Just As I Reread Favourite Books, Some Small Part Of Me Hoping For A Different Ending, I Find Myself Hoping Against Hope That The War Will Never Come. That This Time, Somehow, It Will Leave Us Be.