There was no telling the toll taken on these travelers as they embarked on what some may refer to as the strangest or most forbidden of all paths we may take.
A mystery to some is what must come to others, in a slow desperation . . . a becoming . . . a loss . . . a suffering in a time of redemption.
You may tell me a thing or two, but in the end, all I believe is what I have seen. And up till now, I haven’t seen a whole lot of anything. Things allude and things come between and all that is lost is all that remains.
We all have a story, that I am sure. But is there a story worth my time to write, or your time to read? What makes a story, what keeps your interest long enough to delay the laying of the book upon your chest, the pages folded against your side . . . your arm reaching toward the switch, a click . . . and then tomorrow.