Little By Little, Writers Develop

And If There Are No Cars Or Planes, And If No One’s Uncle John Is Out In The Wood Lot West Of Town Banging Away At A Quail Or Pheasant; If The Only Sound Is The Slow Beat Of Your Own Heart, You Can Hear Another Sound, And That Is The Sound Of Life Winding Down To Its Cyclic Close, Waiting For The First Winter Snow To Perform Last Rites.

Time Takes It All, Whether You Want It To Or Not.

Life Is Like A Wheel. Sooner Or Later, It Always Come Around To Where You Started Again.

She Had Never Dreamed There Could Be So Much Pain In A Life When There Was Nothing Physically Wrong. She Hurt All The Time.

We Need Ghost Stories Because We, In Fact, Are The Ghosts.