Epigram MY soul, sit thou a patient looker-on; Judge not the play before the play is done: Her plot hath many changes; every day Speaks a new day; the last act crowns the play. Frances Quarles From the first moment that I met Margaret, I was blown away. It was my first day of watercolor class in college and I… Read More
There is an immense crater, the size of a small lake. Where water once flowed from a nourishing stream into the crystal clear waters of this lake, now the stream is a barren river bed. Dust drifts away at the slightest breeze, deepening the crevice, cracking the ground. Where the lake used to be, the underwater plants have shriveled from the sun’s glare, lying flat against the hard, hot surface of the crater. It smells like death.