Love is as varied and unpredictable as the rain is: it comes in constant summer drizzles, or sudden, unforseen storms that make rivers burst their banks and Cornish fishing boats rock and spill and lose their crew in the Atlantic.

The tale is often wiser than the teller.

Sometimes we have so much to say, we cannot say it. Sometimes it's best we do not say goodbyes.

I believe the world is as we choose to view it. Simple as that. Our happiness is, in the end, up to us, and to no one else.

Love is blind, they say--but isn't it more that love makes us see too much? Isn't it more that love floods our brain with sights and sounds, so that everything looks bigger, brighter, more lovely than ever before?

Which people take the time to care for their souls, these days? I reckon not many. But...hear this: I think that maybe in our lives - in our scrabbling for food, in the washing of our bodies and warming of them, in our small daily battles - we can forget our souls. We do not tend to them, as if they matter less. But I don't think they matter less.

People take what they need from the stories they hear. The tale is often wiser than the teller.