I Think Of Every Book

Of Course They Needed To Care. It Was The Meaning Of Everything.

She Fell Asleep, And It Was A Sleep As Thin As The Night Clouds, Dotted With Dreams That Came And Went Like The Stars.

The Worst Part Of Holding The Memories Is Not The Pain. It's The Loneliness Of It. Memories Need To Be Shared.

Time Goes On, And Your Life Is Still There, And You Have To Live It. After A While You Remember The Good Things More Often Than The Bad. Then, Gradually, The Empty Silent Parts Of You Fill Up With Sounds Of Talking And Laughter Again, And The Jagged Edges Of Sadness Are Softened By Memories.

Always In The Dream, It Seemed As If There Were A Destination: A Something--he Could Not Grasp What-that Lay Beyond The Place Where The Thickness Of Snow Brought The Sled To A Stop. He Was Left, Upon Awakening, With The Feeling That He Wanted, Even Somehow Needed, To Reach The Something That Waited In The Distance. The Feeling That It Was Good. That It Was Welcoming. That It Was Significant. But He Did Not Know How To Get There.