. . . Companions Were

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

She Doesn't Know I Cry For The Changing Times. That Just As I Reread Favourite Books, Some Small Part Of Me Hoping For A Different Ending, I Find Myself Hoping Against Hope That The War Will Never Come. That This Time, Somehow, It Will Leave Us Be.

. . . Companions Were To Be Valued, Wherever One Found Them.

A Way Of Looking At You That Told You She Was Listening, That She Understood All You Were Saying, And All You Weren't.

Photographs Force Us To See People Before Their Future Weighed Them Down, Before They Knew Their Endings.