He saw the kind of beauty yellow flowers have growing over a carpet of dead leaves. The beauty of cracks forming a mosaic in a dry riverbed, of emerald-green algae at the base of a seawall, of a broken shard from a blue bottle. The beauty of a window smudged with tiny prints. The beauty of wild weeds.

The earth is a mosaic, and most fail to notice the gossamer tesserae floating down from the realm of the mind that form its images of beauty and horror.

Everyone breathing is broken. Keep breathing light into them until the stained glass collage takes your breath away.

...but beautiful mosaics are made of broken pieces.

There is good even in church people. You find it hard to believe, right? Jesus never shut the door on religious people. He just made sure that they understand He was that door, and not their deeds and tasks. Some of us, even I, need to be reminded of this. This being understood, the people of the church are like broken pieces of glass fixed into beautiful mosaic to reflect Jesus. The picture is beautiful, but the pieces do indeed still have sharp edges that can cut.

Like a splendid mosaic of myriad colors, she in all her hues of sensitivity would paint her feelings in your mind’s gray skies. She was the butterfly making you run after her. She was the Zahir, a mirage that transcended borders and time-zones.

She felt as if the mosaic she had been assembling out of life's little shards got dumped to the ground, and there was no way to put it back together.

Am I just a mosaic of myself, held in the shape of a whole person?