Time has cast its subtle reflections across the lake of thought where memories play.

Once stark and bold, painful and brittle, time has left a layer of dust, softening the jagged edges of emotions.

Under its foggy illusion, love becomes fondness, hate a misunderstanding, and hope a distant sunset of a far horizon.

Time reaches out and embraces the wounded child. It wraps arms of comfort that muffle life's pain and seal life's treasures in a gift box to be recalled later when they can be touched without fear of breaking by a too-strong jolt of sensation.

Sonja Torres 1997

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