Words have longer lives than people.

Some things aren't meant to be known. Only believed.

Do certain events in our lives leave a permanent mark, freezing a piece of us in time, and that becomes a touchstone that we measure the rest of our lives against?

Which weakness shall I tell her? “I walk funny,” I say, and she’s satisfied with that. (inside joke)

A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten . . .

Chance. It weaves through our lives like a golden thread, sometimes knotting, tangling, and breaking along the way. Loose threads are left hanging, but the in and out, the back and forth continues, the weaving goes on. It doesn't stop.

When you are perfect, is there anywhere else to go?