There Was Some Justice In His Pain

How Frightening, That One Person Could Mean So Much, So Many Things.

It's A Dead Give Away Of An Inexperienced Writer If Every Character Speaks With The Same Voice

Old Age Is An Ordeal, Of Flesh And Mind. Of Winding Down, Of Slowing Down, Of Dying Cells. It's Accepting The Loss Of Physical Attractiveness And Replacing It With The Power And Wisdom That Can Only Come With Old Age.

Twelve Thousand Miles Of It, To The Other Side Of The World. And Whether They Came Home Again Or Not, They Would Belong Neither Here, Nor There, For They Would Have Lived On Two Continents And Sampled Two Different Ways Of Life.

Perfection, In Anything, Is Unbearably Dull. Myself, I Prefer A Touch Of Imperfection.