You're Tearin' My Guts Out, Claire.

Time Is A Lot Of The Things People Say That God Is. There's Always Preexisting, And Having No End. There's The Notion Of Being All Powerful-because Nothing Can Stand Against Time, Can It? Not Mountains, Not Armies. And Time Is, Of Course, All-healing. Give Anything Enough Time, And Everything Is Taken Care Of: All Pain Encompassed, All Hardship Erased, All Loss Subsumed. Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust. Remember, Man, That Thou Art Dust; And Unto Dust Thou Shalt Return. And If Time Is Anything Akin To God, I Suppose That Memory Must Be The Devil.

Sometimes Our Best Action Result In Things That Are Most Regrettable.

I Hated Him For As Long As I Could. But Then I Realized That Loving Him...that Was A Part Of Me, And One Of The Best Parts. It Didn't Matter That He Couldn't Love Me, That Had Nothing To Do With It. But If I Couldn't Forgive Him, Then I Could Not Love Him, And That Part Of Me Was Gone. And I Found Eventually That I Wanted It Back." ({lord John, Drums Of Autumn}

What A Mystery Blood Was -- How Did A Tiny Gesture, A Tome Of Voice, Endure Through Generations Like The Harder Verities Of Flesh? He Had Seen It Again And Again, Watching His Nieces And Nephews Grow, And Accepted Without Thought The Ehoes Of Parent And Grandparent That Appeared For Brief Moments. The Shadow Of A Face Looking Back Through The Years -- That Vanished Again Into The Face That Was Now.

As Usual, The Note Occupied Less Than A Page And Included Neither Salutation Nor Closing, Uncle Hal's Opinion Being That Since The Letter Had A Direction Upon It, The Intended Recipient Was Obvious, The Seal Indicated Plainly Who Had Written It, And He Did Not Waste His Time In Writing To Fools.