This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.

Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.

Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.

It is hungry, it it immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.

You shall be my roots and I will be your shade, though the sun burns my leaves. You shall quench my thirst and I will feed you fruit, though time takes my seed. And when I'm lost and can tell nothing of this earth you will give me hope. And my voice you will always hear. And my hand you will always have. For I will shelter you. And I will comfort you. And even when we are nothing left, not even in death, I will remember you.

Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.

Beautiful women are always drawn to men they think will keep them beautiful.