Nighttime Is Different. Things Are

Happiness In Life Is Not A Given, It Must Be Seized.

She Says There Are Stories Everywhere And That People Who Wait For The Right One To Come Along Before Setting Pen To Paper End Up With Very Empty Pages.

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.

She Was The Breeze On A Summer's Day, The First Drops Of Rain When The Earth Was Parched, Light From The Evening Star.

My Fingers Positively Itched To Drift At Length Along Their Spines, To Arrive At One Whose Lure I Could Not Pass, To Pluck It Down, To Inch It Open, Then To Close My Eyes And Inhale The Soul-sparking Scent Of Old And Literate Dust.