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.
27 April 2009
Life less ordinary
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.--Seneca
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