Time's passage through the memory is like molten glass that can be opaque or crystalize at any given moment at will: a thousand days are melted into one conversation, one glance, one hurt, and one hurt can be shattered and sprinkled over a thousand days. It is silent and elusive, refusing to be damned and dripped out day by day; it swirls through the mind while an entire lifetime can ride like foam on the deceptive, transparent waves and get sprayed onto the conciousness at ragged, unexpected intervals.

We get so caught up in what a man isn't. It's what he is that counts.

The right woman is the one you can live with, not the one in your head.

Time is a funny thing. I was always puzzled with the way a single day could stretch itself out to the point of eternity in your mind, all while years melted down into the fraction of a second.

Words themselves are innocuous; it is the consensus that gives them true power.

Life is accepting what is and working from that.

Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.