All I Want, Is For

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.

It Isn't Necessarily Easier If You Know What It Is You're Meant To Do-- But At Least You Don't Waste Time In Questioning Or Doubting. If You're Honest--well, That Isn't Necessarily Easier, Either. Though I Suppose If You're Honest With Yourself And Know What You Are, At Least You're Less Likely To Feel That You've Wasted Your Life, Doing The Wrong Thing.

I Have Lived Through War, And Lost Much. I Know What's Worth The Fight, And What Is Not. Honor And Courage Are Matters Of The Bone, And What A Man Will Kill For, He Will Sometimes Die For, Too. And That, O Kinsman, Is Why A Woman Has Broad Hips; That Bony Basin Will Harbor A Man And His Child Alike. A Man's Life Springs From His Woman's Bones, And In Her Blood Is His Honor Christened. For The Sake Of Love Alone, I Would Walk Through Fire Again.

Really Rather Fascinating, You Know,' He Confided, And I Recognized, With An Internal Sigh, The Song Of The Scholar, As Identifying A Sound As The Terr-whit! Of A Thrush.

The Colors Of Living Things Begin To Fade With The Last Breath, And The Soft, Springy Skin And Supple Muscle Rot Within Weeks. But The Bones Sometimes Remain, Faithful Echoes Of The Shape, To Bear Some Last Faint Witness To The Glory Of What Was.