I've never understood the desire for books with matched bindings. You don't go through life looking for sets of matched people, and books are just as individual.

Ever poised on that cusp between past and future, we tie memories to souvenirs like string to trees along life’s path, marking the trail in case we lose ourselves around a bend of tomorrow’s road.

Optimism is life with sprinkles on top.

To write is human, to receive a letter: Devine!

Half is better than none unless it be of a wit.

Autumn flings her fiery cloak over the sumac, beech and oak.