backouttatime

As I wash my hands, I just can’t stop thinking about it. About what I could have done differently. About my patient and the inevitable. About what I did wrong. What I missed. In Med School, I was top in my class, got every question right, and could solve any theoretic medical mystery that was thrown at me. But now…

I find myself doubting. I lack the ability to do what is necessary. I am doubting myself. Every step I take, I wonder if it is in the right direction. I’m supposed to be a good doctor, but here I am wandering around in circles, unsure of where I’m supposed to go next. Where did I miss my turn?

I don my scrubs and the horrible latex gloves that smell so sterile and look like the gloves of a less honorable profession. Janitorial, perhaps. They smell like hospital, a scent which, despite my chosen profession, I have never been fond of. But, as there are no medical mysteries to solve with out a hospital, I stay on.

I’ve finished the preparation stages and enter the bland and equally sterile room. The upper levels of my workplace are aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but the lower levels are a different story. They have little feeling or warmth, and the Dean of the hospital could care less about how the employees feel about the institutionary feel the basement floor.

There are no patients here to appreciate warm tones and colors on the wall, no artwork displayed here to make the setting visually interesting. That is, unless you find cadavers to be pretty scenery. Because, that’s all there is down here. The walls are white and the floors, blue tile. The tables and implements, the only accessories in the room, are stainless steel. Cold and harsh.

The area where I am, and the rest of the rooms on this floor, is home to the mortuary section of the hospital – autopsy labs and the morgue. Today we are in Lab 5 of the autopsy sector. It is silent. There is only me and my deceased patient. I organize my implements, but before selecting one and setting to work, I start my recorder.

The recording unit is small and thin, fitting into my hand easily. This will be my first time using it. I had hoped that it would just sit on my shelf forever, never used. But today has dashed that hope. So, it will serve its ultimate purpose – recording the autopsy. If I do this, I can make sure I can make sure that once I’ve found my mistake, I’ll remember it forever, never repeating it again, assuring myself that next time, I’ll be prepared.

The first incision is made, and then the second. These two are the most important. It’s just like clearing off the workspace before you can set to work. The next step is the search – decided where to start. It’s finding the missing factor, the cause, the last unattainable symptom. What is there that doesn’t add up? I find them, one after the other, the first, second, third symptoms. The ones that I saw and diagnosed, albeit, incorrectly.

I jostle the table and the right hand slides off. I move to replace it and notice how beautiful the patients hand is. Long thin fingers, smooth and without callous. Fingernails rounded and naturally smoothed. Did these hands belong to a musician? Perhaps a pianist’s hands.

“My patient is a pianist,” I’ve spoken aloud. I broke the predetermined and solitary vow of silence in this room. And it’s startled me. My hands are shaking slightly. I’ve paused, the scalpel in my hand, just hovering slightly over a new section of my patient.

Finally I continue the autopsy. But I find myself still distracted. My hands may work on but my mind wanders. It’s gone on automatic pilot, an action repeated continually, and I need my mind on my work if that is to amount to a diagnosis is for this post- mortem patient. The eyes...were they blue or green?

But I snap my mind back to my work because I need to know. I need to know why my patient died. I need the assurance that I’m not fallible. But I’ll never have that. I just need to know that there was nothing, in the least, that I could have done to prevent my patient’s death. It’s unsettling to think that I could be responsible for this. That because I missed something I effectively killed my patient. I am totally unprepared for this, the inevitable.

The loss of a patient.

I was in school, and I wanted it so much, to be a doctor. I can handle the blood, the awkwardness of the human body. I thought I could handle the death. But I never expected it to be one of mine. My patient. It was such a short time ago that I believed it to be impossible. So inconceivable that a patient of mine might actually die. That I can’t and will never be able to fix everything.

With this one event I feel I have years more experience than even a day, an hour ago. That I’ve opened my eyes to see that, beneath it all, all my workplace is, all the hospital is a place to either fix a mistake, or create a new one.

When I first got the job, I was ecstatic, but worried to death about the impression I would make. With the idea of the young doctor comes the idea of a naïve perfectionist. I saw myself as mature and prepared the one ready for the challenge. But was I ready for the consequences? I would have shown them what a good addition to their staff I would make. I dressed nice, boots and make up, stuff like that.

In my head was this ill-conceived notion that my appearance was key to a good and lasting first impression. That my appearance could make up for my lack of prior experience. And now I really see. I was just like the stereotype. I was nothing more than a naïve perfectionist, like they assumed I would be in the first place.

My image of myself is so skewed now. Before it was a hopelessly flawed half painted picture. And now it will burn. This has changed me. Looking back, I seem so shallow, the way that I perceived myself in comparison…forgetting that impressing the dean and my colleagues, all much more seasoned than I, was not as important as those whose life was on the line – my patients.

They are my priority. “My patients are my priority,” And with that utterance I have regained my focus with renewed diligence in my quest to reaffirm my self-confidence, for it has been severely shaken.

I’m examining the heart when I notice the oddity. And it all clicks into place from there. The heart defect cased all of the symptoms. Every last issue with the patient’s bodily functions – explained by one simple hear defect.

It should have been obvious; it wasn’t.

I should have seen it; I didn’t.

The time period during which Jane Austen wrote was the transitional period Georgian and the Victorian Periods. Her writing style is reflective of the way of the times.

Features of the Regency Period:

• distinctive fashions
• politics
• culture
• high degree of elegance

Characteristics of the Regency Style Writing

• Parody/Burlesque
  • Austen often parodies the traditional 18^th century writings genres, such as gothic and sentimental novels 
• Irony
  • Takes simple definite statements and bring an ironic hidden meaning to it.
    • She [Mrs. Bertram] was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience... (Mansfield Park, page etc.)
• Free indirect speech
  • Often times, throughout her books, there are periods where characters go into extensive dialogue, but it is usually only eluded to rather than actually stated
• Language and Conversation
  • Comparatively there is little description or background as to the amount of dialogue that takes place in her books. Often times whole pages shall be devoted to just dialogue

• Morality
  • A common theme in Austen’s work is that of morality – the duties of a woman, and the feeling of both genders, scandal and righteousness are all common themes under the title of morality that a common place in Austen’s novels
• Education
  • More in the style of worldly learning (trial and error) do her heroines learn and become educated.  
• Home life
  • Most of the novels take place in the home or a home, specifically, and when going somewhere it is not usually the city, rather a park or the country, or another’s house, perhaps for a party.
• Marriage
  • Every book is centered around romance and the many reasons for marriage and love.

The Fire Dancer

Firelit, Firelight, Firegleam, Firedream.

Firedance, in times of chance with

knife bearers and cloaked night-wearers

that scare and dare, with knives,

a well-wishers fair.

A scream, a dream, blood gleams

from love inflicted wounds

that stream forever from your face,

with the fires of hate and the evil glares

of your enemies stares.

Time will heal your tears with bells

that peal a twinkling tune from May

to June and seal your doom with

all the leers and jeers from

your deepest fears.

Oh Fire Dancer, let a fire flicker on your

finger to show, how all about you,

 the shadows that flare and scare every watcher

 that dare be entranced before your entertaining,

  hide the dark creatures of the night.

Prance, dance, for the shining eyes of

the White Ladies of Fortune and

the Mistresses of Death who take heart

in the glowing and the showing

of your tricks with your flaming friend.

A saying of goodbye hearten not

those left behind, nor the fire-flicker

on the wall that calls your words

mouth-less yet heard. Too many words

unspoken go and too many hearts

un-broken are to be so.

And who’s to dance in your place?

for life now wastes as time awaits

the return of the sorrowful, yet powerful,

the prancer, the entrancer,

The Fire Dancer.

Sam - You can post this on your account or get it back to me somehow and i'll post it on mine, doesn't matter, just so long as you (and i know you would anyway) give me credit for the story, as i'd give you credit for the translation. If you post it on your own account, then feel free to add your own comment(translator's note, etc.) and if you want to , you can disregard some of mine own(doesn't really matter a whole ton to me). I really appreciate you doing this for me
sencerely
Backouttatime/Nefertiri
Auf Weiders(and here is were i got lost, typical me!)
OH! I also forgot, the translations at the bottom are obviously not nessicary when it'll be in German, nein!?
Thanks again
Bye


__________

A/N: Happy New Year ! I, being mostly of German decent, was deeply moved with
the story of Claus. I decided to write this prayer as a tribute to all those men and their families, especially to Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg, his wife and children. Those brave men who risked their lives to show the world a better Germany, and came so close. God bless them and keep them in His heart P.S. If anyone is interested in translating this into German (I’d do a crappy job, and the Col. deserves better) it would be very much welcomed, seeing as he is a hero of Germany. Pm me if you want to, or just Review, ya know, push the little button!

______________________

The Journal and Writings of Oberst Claus Philipp Maria Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg 

Entry - July 19^th 1944    

           Mein Gott, tomorrow, as you have made it, I will embark on a perilous mission to show the world the true Deutschland, not Hitler’s Germany, or Nazi Germany, but the true Vaterland. I know I put myself and my family, as well as any one else I am acquainted with, in grave danger by revolting against Hitler’s regime. Dear God, please, keep my family safe and healthy. You are the shepherd; You keep us under Your watchful eye.  Guide us through all the darkness that surrounds us and we shall not fear, for You are with us always. If we do not succeed, death I shall not fear, for I shall have served my country, our Sacred Germany. Forever may it be a banner under you, oh God. Empower us to strike true as we face certain death if we are caught. Help us to let the world see that not all Germans are like Hitler; that not all Germans are Nazis.

          Amen.

          These days, it is the fear that Hitler will be the death of us all that keeps us alive. The fear, that if we don’t act soon, the Allied forces will strike and that Hitler’s War will be lost. And, in the end, Germany crushed. If we fail, if the bomb does not carry out what it is so intended to do, all will be lost. To pray for death is wrong, but if Hitler is not killed, more than one will die. The Jews will be exterminated by the Nazi’s if nothing is done, and Germany will be in disgrace. Tomorrow, I shall deposit the bomb at the Wolfsschanze’s subterranean Führerbunker where there we will be meeting with Hitler. May God speed us on our way to victory with Operation Walküre, nonwithstanding, those who are unsure whether or not their choice to help us. For who knows what they shall do? We must forgive them, for they are endangering their lives and families, as much as i  am.  Again, I pray, Mein Gott, for our victory. For Hitler and the Nazi party’s detruction, yet I cannot hope too much. I fear that, if I do, all will be lost. For now, I shall follow steadfastly the path which I have chosen, as it be the will of my Lord God, to its conclusion, or its unsuccesful end. Whatever the outcome, I know that I have tried my hardest, and that I have done all in my power. So help me, if this doesn’t work, and if the pencil detonator bombs do not kill Hitler, I would murder him myself. I do not think it wise, but I am sorely tempted. But for my family, I would. Let this not be the end, but a beginning. A beginning of a spark. A spark that would light a candle. The dark, the evil, and the wrong of this world may win, but there inlies it’s weakness. The people may cower, afraid, in the dark, at the heart of the evil’s power, but one candle is enough to hold it at bay, to strike it down. The spark that my fellows and I will ignite, will light a candle. That candle, like a single light burning in a chuch, alone will be enough to show Germany’s true self, the ways of the people; not the ways of the Nazi party, that so cloud the world’s veiw of us. We are the candle. We are hope, the hope that war will end, that peace may come, that we will become the ally, against Germany, for Germany. Hitler’s Germany must perish, that i cannot deny. To do wrong to induce right is not a wanton task, yet we take it up as our burnden, for we owe our lives to our contry and our God. We are Nationalists, not Nazis; We are Germans, not killers. God help us prevaile, we will need all the help you can give us. I can only hope that all those who believe in our cause will pray as we execute this horrendous act of righteousness. I believe in my Lord, and his commands say ‚thout Shalt Not Kill’, but in order to preserve all that God’s holy germany stands for I must break his command, and later repent, and rejoyce, if our goal is fulfilled. In Gods name, I pray. Do not let this murderer proceed through life one more day! I love Germany, my true Germany. The one that I fight so hard to keep alive. I must not fail. The fate of true Germany lies in my hand; in the fire power of  the explosives that I will plant, set off, and lastly, to the best of my ability, to not get caught.  I must try and I will keep trying till I succed or death takes me. God save Germany, God save us all. My Nina, my children, i did this for you, as  much as for the rest of our true German brothers and sisters. Do not forget those who are trying to make our world a better place, our lives happier, our homes and streets safer, and our hearts, peaceful with a new sense of the world and of rightiousness. If I do not return from this mission, i have but one last thing to say. Es lebe das heilige(s?) Deutschland! If I am taken, these will be my last words. Long live our sacred Germany!

In God’s Holy Name,

Claus Philipp Maria Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg 

______________________________

German Words

Oberst – Colonel

Schenk Graf – having to do with being an aristocratict, a title - Count

Mein Gott – My God

Deutschland – Germany

Vaterland – Fatherland

Es lebe das heilige(s) Deutschland - Long live our holy Germany

Wolfsschanz – the wolf’s lair

Führerbunker - shelter for the leader" or "the Führer's(leader / ruler) shelter

Walküre - Valkyrie

This story is intended to be an out of the box look at Parkinson’s disease, and how family members and victims live with it and deal with the fact that there is no cure. It was inspired by one little aspect of my life that I’ll mention here now.

          It never fails to happen that when my mother and I watch a Michael J. Fox film, one or the other of us will mention how adorable and cute he is, followed directly by one or the other of us mentioning just how sad it is that he has Parkinson’s. Never Fails. Ever. Which is why I wrote this piece. Enjoy. Be aware.

________________________________

A Letter to Michael J. Fox

Crayons rolled on the floor. Paper rustled. A small quiet tune escaped the little girls lips as she lay on her kitchen floor, crayon in hand, trying hard to make her handwriting just perfect. She was almost seven, but still loved crayons; the bright colors were happier than the blackish-gray of the lead pencil or the permanent blue ink of her new pen. A photo of her grandfather lay on the ground next to her, watching her as she worked. Two sheets of wide lined cursive training paper later Morgan had finished her very first official letter. It read:

            Dear Mr. Fox,

I’m righting you my very first letter. I want to send it to you because of my Granddaddy. Mommy told me that he’s sick, and won’t get better. Mommy said that he warn’t the only one, she said you were sick like my Granddaddy too. Mommy said that you were helping people who were sick like you. (Do you have to stay home from school everyday?) I just was wondering if you could make him better. I hope the pretty rainbow colors make you feel better too. Sorry for doing blue again, it’s my most favorite color.

                                Lots of hugs,

                        Morgan Sylvia Saur

                P.S. My Granddaddy’s name is Roy

          Getting a plain white envelope, Morgan slide the clumsily folded letter into it, licking the flap sealed and pressing it down securely to be sure. On went her rain boots and her light spring jacket with the rain hood. It had started raining some time ago and the little girl pulled her hood over her long brown pigtails, the all important envelope hid safely in her jacket to keep it dry. The post office was two blocks down from her Milwaukee home, so the little girl skipped through the puddles to make her short journey more enjoyable. Morgan had been to the post office before, with her Mommy and her Daddy a couple times, but never had she ever sent her very own letter.

          When she got into the tiny foyer before the mail desk she shook off throrouly, spraying rain drops everywhere, before entering. She used both hands to push the door open, then skipped into the main office. Her head barely reached the top of the desk’s counter.

          “’Scuse me, mister,” she said in her little tomboy voice. “I got a letter to mail, my first one!”

          The man at the counter looked down at her, while Morgan looked up at him. “Your first letter, huh? So who’s it too?” he asked grabbing a pen as she slid the unaddressed letter onto the counter.

          “Mister Michael J. Fox,” she said slightly as she stood on tiptoe to watch the Clerk fill out the address. He paused when she said the name, but wrote it on anyhow. He stopped there, looking at the little girl through squinted eyes.

          “Why’re you sending Mister Fox a letter?”

          “He’s going to help my Granddaddy. They’re both sick, and my Mommy says that Mister Fox helps people who’re sick like my Granddaddy,”

          The clerk didn’t have the heart to turn the little girl down so he smiled at her, “Allrighty then, I promise that we’ll send it out right away, miss,”

          “Thank you, Mister, You’re sure he’ll get it?” Morgan asked anxiously.

          “I promise, he’ll get it, don’t you worry sweetie, he’ll get it,”

                                                          ~

          Dear Mr. Michael J. Fox,

When I was almost seven my Grandfather was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. My Mother had told me that you, too, had the disease, and that you were fighting for research rights and trying to find a cure. I then wrote you a letter, in crayon, hoping that you would help my Grandfather to get better. I was naïve, and innocent. I know now that you never got that letter, that the Postal clerk was just being nice to a desperate little girl. Hopefully this one will reach you, because you have touched me. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Parkinson’s, it has become such a big part of my life. All I can say is thank you for all that you have done in the research branch of your foundation. It means more than you can ever imagine

                   As before lots of hugs.

                             Sincerely,

                                      Morgan Sylvia Saur~Parker

I held the letter in my shaking right hand, shaking because of the disease. I may have touched her, God knows how, but her letter didn’t just reach me, it truly, truly touched me. I only wish that I could have done more.

Right now I’m close to wondering if the clerk kept the letter, I’d like to have read it, I can only imagine how the page would look. The writing that of a young child, the pages bright with her crayons in newly learnt cursive.

I loved watching my kids grow up, but just that letter would have shown me what it was like for this young woman to watch her beloved Grandfather live with Parkinson’s. It would be insight into the minds of my own children. That gift would be so precious, to see life through the eyes of a child is priceless.

What I wouldn’t give to know what that letter said.

Next thing I knew, I was writing her back. And I can’t help but wonder if she ever had any hope of knowing that her letter had reached me. And I smile. Whether she had or not doesn’t matter any longer. Because now, no matter what, she will.

The letter that she had sent me as a child could have said a million different things, a million and one for all I care. I haven’t ever seen it, and probably never will, but it still told me at least on thing.

Persevere.

I can. I must. And, I will.

Not because I have to, but because it’s the right thing to do. And now, I want it more than ever.

As I sign my name at the bottom of the letter, I can’t help but wonder what it is that I wrote, I can’t even remember, but I know that whatever it is, she’ll know that I care.

I look down and read:

                   Dearest Morgan,

Thank you for writing that letter, so long ago. I may never have gotten it, but I know what it said. It told me to persevere. I promise, I will. The world through the eyes of an innocent, such as a child, is a world seen purely.

                                    God bless,

                                                Michael J. Fox  

It’s short, sure, but I don’t need to say any more. My heart says it all.

~Finne~

I added this afterwards as an afterward or epilogue thingy. So here’s the ending.

The Last Letter

There was no return address on the envelope, the handwriting was shaky and uneven, however, but written with time and care. The message, no matter its length, was a welcome surprise to the young woman, and it was signed in tight, small script:

Michael J. Fox

After that day, she always kept the letter with her, but curiously never showed it to anyone, nor told anyone about the two previous letters. Not till the day that her Granddaddy went to the hospital. That day, in his room, she pulled the letter from her purse and read it aloud to him, giving him hope with every letter off the page.

Someday, Morgan knew that she would write one last letter to Mr. Fox, but hopefully that day would be long in coming.

Sadly it was not.

~

          Dear Mr. Fox

This will be the last letter you will receive from me. My Grandfather has died, age Nintey~Two. He battled hard and long against the inabilities Parkinson’s gave him, but he has finally gone to rest, in hope of rising again, clean and pure of disease and ailment. I do hope that you are well, and shall miss writing to you. Will never forget the letter. I believe I cried.

However, It’s time for our letters to end.

                   As before, lots of Hugs,

                             Sincerely,

                                                Morgan Sylvia Saur~Parker

Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The Beer Capital of America. Germany’s second Fatherland. Two blocks down was an old Post Office. There were certainly lots of them in Milwaukee. This was the last one I had to check.

          “Excuse me Sir, did a little girl of about six come in here some years ago with a letter for a Mister Michael J. Fox?”

          The Clerk looked up at me. “Hold on a sec, young man,” she went into the back and called for another of the Clerks, an older man, who looked as if he’d been there for a long enough time.

          “Don, this man is lookin for a letter for a Mister Michael J. Fox, brought here some time ago by a six year old girl, ya seen it?”

Donny nodded, and the other clerk left.

          “You’re Michael J. Fox,”

          “Yeah, do you have it?”

          “I couldn’t have ever broke that little girls heart, looks like I don’t have to no more,” Donny dug unto a drawer towards the left end of the desk, and pulled out a slightly yellowed envelope with the name Mr. Michael J. Fox written in hurried hand on it’s front and handed it to me

          “Thank you,”

          I sat down in one of the chairs at the front, hands again shaking from lack of medicine. I opened it with gentle hands and slid the letter slowly from the broken seal.

Dear Mr. Fox,

It was golden, the view of the world from a child’s perspective. Innocence was far beyond treasure, it was priceless.

My Dearest little friend, Morgan,

            To view the world from your eyes is something I will never forget. In this last letter of our correspondence, I wish y0u long and happy life, blessing on your dead Grandfather, and your beloved Mother, as well as those who taught you to write cursive so well. I mourn your losses, as I mourn my own. We are no longer innocents in this life. We no longer see as the ignorant of the ways or the small child sees. But to remember what it is like through the words of a child’s letter, and forever preserve a bit of that innocence, is like Heaven in a world of Hell. My greatness and thanks to you. This is the last letter.

                                    Condolences for your grievances, and God Bless

Michael J. Fox

I sent it, still with no return address, wrote the place name with care, and sent it lovingly, both letters, envelopes and all. That would end it.

I would miss my little letter of insight, but it belonged with her. She was still young enough to change. I couldn’t, and never would. I didn’t have to. I have a different place in this world. No matter how old I get, no matter how ill, I am immortalized in the minds and hearts of those who see my films, hear my story.

My job is to show people, not tell them. My job is to make them aware. Morgan’s job was to show me just how much doing my job meant to the rest of the world. Morgan’s job was to make sure that I did mine. My job is to persevere. My mission is to make people aware.

My hands are shaking again.

~Finne~

Alone

Windy days, no breezy days are the best. I go, all alone, on walkabout, to get away from reality, to my solitude, in the paradise of my little forest. The busiy, bustling world is gone, realitly has disintegrated, my thoughts dispersed. I sit alone, but not really alone, for nature is all around me, living and thriving in the forest by the river. It is, well, was set aside to be a park, but the area is long and thin, not near big enough to be a real park. It is mostly quiet there, save the sound of the birds and the bees. It is, shall I call it, the alone place.
But the aloneness never lasts long enough. Cars pass on the road that runs along my alone place. When the rush starts, I zone out, closing my wide and string eyes, if only for a moment. I embrace the darkness that opens to admit the light as i drift out of my physical self(for the mind has no limitations), to somewhere far from the world around me. A watery pool of colour and light enter my field of vision. Darkness evaporates, and once again, I can see.
A different view is before me. In my mind's eye, I am in my ideal alone place.Out beyond the Bush, were I stand, there is a wood,Sequoias and Birch, Pine and Elm, Oak and Maple, Evergreen and Palm all together at once. Mountains from my porcelain figure, light and breakable to the naked eye, but darkskinned and rugged to those who can see. I sit in this natural throne as if i were Mother Nature herself. My alone place is an Eden, and I, her Queen. Animals run underfoot, all around me, through the paths of twisted trees. An ocean stretches far beyond my sight, turquoise, and gleaming in the sun up. 
I fly, lofty, up on one the breeze, veiwing the water's edge, and land on the crysteline white beach. There, crustaceans scuttle about, evading capture by birds of every colour, and seagulls that squawk. I wade into the water, watching fish of every shade swim in a sea of my thoughts, that area of my brain that assumes and judges and thinks of it's own accord. My thought are the oly ones that swish and swiril the great pool. i am alone here, I am the only one. Just me. But being alone is just that - alone.
Solitary.
No one is there to care what I say or do in my alone place. I am who ever it is I feel like becoming. But with this comes loneliesness, the occasional urge to talk and discuss, chatt, and chatter, with people. So, as I think of my being lonely, I hear a chime, distant and hollow, almost a whispering tone. It just loud enough that I can hear it, but it's so far away, such as would be a distant memory. But another chime, louder this time, and non-disconsolate or discoradant with the other, sounds. They harmonize with joyfulness of my iminent homecoming. Fot tofay, the alone place has gone. The chiming melody bring me back to my physical self, into the arms of family and friends, companions and good company; simpley said, mates. I have left my wood, my alone place, for even I, as solitary as I can, and have been, cannot stand to be lonely for long.
The little wood grows smaller in my mind, with each passing day, since I no longer have the time to visit. I have become a part of the busy bustling, non comforming world. No time to be laid back. My Ma often says that the world need to slow down, kinda like the 'smell the roses' line. We all need to give life a break, for nothing is so important as to forget leisuire. If we did, the world would be an even more unhappy, hateful place. So I, along with Ma, take it slow and steady and enjoy the time I have. in my alone place.

~