The World moves on. It does so very quickly. I guess it should be that way. But one hopes that it lingers a bit on a few little things. Just a bit. Longer than a blink. Shorter than a wee sigh. What are these little things one may ask? Not just the sun and the moon and the stars and the flowers underneath. But also the glint in a brat's eye. The withering sadness of a lighthouse, a beacon of hope, really, The desolation of a white sheet of paper when words fail you The deafening silence when a heart goes crack in two. The melancholy of an eternal optimist. The World moves on quickly, Perhaps for the best.
A record of a spattering of thoughts. Not of Life