Thinking Of Nothing. Trying To Think Of

I Write What I'd Like To Read And Just Hope That, Along The Way, Others Might Like To Read Them, Too.

If You Don't Stop Apologizing, You're Going To Convince Me You've Done Something Wrong.

It Is A Cruel, Ironical Art, Photography. The Dragging Of Captured Moments Into The Future; Moments That Should Have Been Allowed To Be Evaporate Into The Past; Should Exist Only In Memories, Glimpsed Through The Fog Of Events That Came After. Photographs Force Us To See People Before Their Future Weighed Them Down.

Cassandra's Grandmother Smiled Then, Only It Wasn't A Happy Smile. Cassandra Thought She Knew How It Felt To Smile Like That. She Often Did So Herself When Her Mother Promised Her Something She Really Wanted But Knew Might Not Happen.

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.