I Simply Love Writing Good

When Reason Sleeps, The Monsters Of Repression Will Emerge.

She Either Confused Me With A Much Older Child Or Else She Glimpsed Deep Inside My Soul And Perceived A Hole That Needed Filling. I've Always Chosen To Believe The Latter. After All, It's The Librarian's One Sworn Purpose To Bring Books Together With Their One True Reader.

I Probably Coughed Self-pityingly In Response, Little Aware That I Was About To Cross A Tremendous Threshold Beyond Which There Would Be No Return, That In My Hands I Held An Object Whose Simple Appearance Belied Its Profound Power. All True Readers Have A Book, A Moment, Like The One I Describe, And When Mum Offered Me That Much-read Library Copy Mine Was Upon Me.

It Is A Cruel, Ironical Art, Photography. The Dragging Of Captured Moments Into The Future; Moments That Should Have Been Allowed To Be Evaporate Into The Past; Should Exist Only In Memories, Glimpsed Through The Fog Of Events That Came After. Photographs Force Us To See People Before Their Future Weighed Them Down.

I've Heard It Said That Children Born To Stressful Times Never Shake The Air Of Woe . . . .