Like the letters on this old page are the words of our life. The black ink flows onto the paper in meaningful lines of stain. The flimsy and delicate sheet holds their story. A story that passes by like the end of the page. Thousands of scribblings on the many papers - too numerous to be counted. They all speak of a life and lives, lived or died.

Like writing on a paper - ink blots and poems together making up one History. The page flips and a new one begins. Will this story make it to the next page? Or drift with the crumbling of it. Will the page be burned in a fire or preserved for a small while - perhaps hidden in a journal or under a bed in a box. The pen writes as if it was its own entity, and life evaporates with the last period mark.

But the Lord gives script to the heart, to the stories unspoken