Those Who Live In Memories Are Never

I Simply Love Writing Good Stories, That's My Passion.

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.

She Did As She Felt, And She Felt A Great Deal.

There’s Something About Hospital Walls; Though Only Made Of Bricks And Plaster, When You’re Inside Them The Noise, The Reality Of The Teeming City Beyond, Disappears; It’s Just Outside The Door, But It Might As Well Be A Magical Land Far, Far Away.

Life Could Be Cruel Enough These Days Without The Truth Making It Worse.