i read some stories once. twelve of them in all. they were odd stories. sad. dark. in all twelve stories there wasnt one damn work of love, or peace, or hope. the stories were tragic and ruthless. when i finished the last one, i lay the book on my chest and i sit by the fire, alone. i am at peace somehow, i am hopeful for whats next. and love, there is emphasis on the love i have for my wife, my daughter. and i thank the author of those stories, for keeping it all there, in the binding, so it doesn't creep out where i don't want it.
