Evening. The dead sheathed in the earth's crust and turning the slow diurnal of the earth's wheel, at peace with eclipse, asteroid, the dusty novae, their bones brindled with mold and the celled marrow going to frail stone, turning, their fingers laced with root, at one with Tut and Agamemnon, with the seed and the unborn.

Sometimes we look lost, but that's how life is we learn different things everyday

Misfortune is a fact of nature acceptable to women, especially when it falls on other women.

A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here.

Written By Jane Austen

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