Old As He Was, He Still Missed

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.

A Loud Voice Is Not Always Angry; A Soft Voice Not Always To Be Dismissed; And A Well-placed Silence Can Be The Indisputable Last Word.

Contempt Mates Well With Pity.

I Don't Believe That Life Is Supposed To Make You Feel Good, Or To Make You Feel Miserable Either. Life Is Just Supposed To Make You Feel.

We Get So Caught Up In What A Man Isn't. It's What He Is That Counts.