Wrote with Love is a garden. it is every flower and blade of grass growing in that garden, every worm, man and ram living in that garden and it is the last words of every life that has ended in the shade of its trees. It is the print left by the hand of countless visitors
Wednesday, June 10
People don't know
You wouldn't see in the people I know, the things I see in them. And they'd never see, through my eyes, the things I see in you. My hope is, that sometime after you meet, I am deaf to the silent conversation between you.
