That's why I'm talking to you. You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect.

To be with her is to feel a pain, like a frozen knife in my chest. An awful pain, but the funny thing is that I'm thankful for it. It's as though that frozen pain and my very existence are one. The pain is an anchor, mooring me here.

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;  Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best;  Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I work hard, I work late, I have nothing on my conscience. When I go to bed, I sleep.

Written By Ellen Johnson Sirleaf

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