We are all in motion. Always. Those who are not climbing toward something are descending toward nothing.

Books are the most tolerant of friends.

such fickle days of love when pain and ecstasy share the same hour

I have learned that real angels don't have gossamer white robes and Cherubic skin, they have calloused hands and smell of the days' sweat.

Often times, the greatest peace comes of surrender.

As we walk our individual life journeys, we pick up resentments and hurts, which attach themselves to our souls like burrs clinging to a hiker's socks. These stowaways may seem insignificant at first, but, over time, if we do not occasionally stop and shake them free, the accumulation becomes a burden to our souls.

I've wondered why the famous congregate with each other. Perhaps it's to assure each other that they really are as important as they think they are.