There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation of a theme

We speak of stories ending, when in truth it is we who end. The stories go on and on.

The harp sounds at each passing breeze, but that does not mean the tune is masterfully played.

Fear and lies fester in darkness. The truth may wound, but it cuts clean.

There is no fulfillment that is not made sweeter for the prolonging of desire

There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation on a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed; whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.

We may not have demon fathers dangling offers of infernal power before us, but everyone understands what it means to struggle with temptation or resist the urge to give in to our baser natures.