Once upon a time in the not too distant past, in a time I will one day no longer remember, I wish I had written you. One day I will write you, write us. As one year ends and another begins, those words are no longer with me, that story unreachable. I will wish you well and I will tell you that I hope we both find the happiness, peace and love we could not find together.

Is one of several Steinbeck books that my mother collected before her marriage. Mama was a would-be novelist who never wrote. I never even saw her read a novel, but her collection of 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s books showed she read fiction in her younger days. Steinbeck, as usual, tells a gripping story in short, easy-to.

True evil has a face you know and a voice you trust. Though, I might as well get used to it, for it was the second time that week. When the candles were blown put, it was time to leave. So I slowly gathered up my belongings I brought and headed down the aisle to the doors until a grimy hand covered my mouth and pulled me down to an unspeakable land. Always Lost, But Never Found. Her crown lay on the tiled floor full of blood and so.

You rise, you fall, you rise again. Thou art of life is stubborn. You weep, you smile, you laugh again. Thou art of life is perpetual. You make mistakes, learn or regret. Thou art of life is forgiving. You believe, trust or doubt. Thou art of life is lucid. You fly, crawl, stand or faint. Thou art of life is candour. Just pursue, feel and live this art unjudged,.

Another year passing by with the good, the bad and the in between. And im forever thankful to that.