No one lives very long without finding out how much of the responsibility for unhappiness lies at our own door.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss on your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep of the glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Cormac McCarthy - ‘The Road’
The human hand extended in friendship is a powerful gesture, even when the motivation is purely mercenary.
Between you and Superstorm Sandy, October 29, 2012 was one chaotic day. Happy birthday, little buddy! We’ll see you soon!
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