He was standing in an old road, rutted and ancient, that wound up a black hill towards the sky, where a great flock of black birds was gathering. The birds were like black letters against the grey of the sky. He thought that in a moment he would understand what the writing meant. The stones in the ancient road were symbols foretelling the travelers journey.
08 December 2008
Not every man truely lives
"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."-- Martin Luther King Jr.
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