Black Isn't Beautiful And It

Once I Unlocked The Mystery Of The Alphabet That Led To Words, A Multitude Of Words Connecting Me To The World, There Was No Stopping Me.

Not Only Is Your Story Worth Telling, But It Can Be Told In Words So Painstakingly Eloquent That It Becomes A Song.

In A Contest Between New Technology And Old Ways Of Life, It Is The Traditional Rhythms That Will Hold. Traditional Societies Make Up More Than Two-thirds Of The World, The Two-thirds That Will Not Be Going Online To "save" Time But Will Remain Wedded To The Knowledge That If The Bus Doesn't Come That Day, It Will Come Someday. After All, There Is Nothing But Time.

I Don't Believe That Life Is Supposed To Make You Feel Good, Or To Make You Feel Miserable Either. Life Is Just Supposed To Make You Feel.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.