I have no idea where this came from but here goes.
There is, in all life and love, a story to be told, a dream known only to ourselves. Within us is the power to interweave it into the tales of others. We are, all of us, fragments of imagination, dreams brought to life in words, thoughts and deeds. Within each moment and each life we touch, there is an eternity to touch, see and explore. In the waning hours of existence, it plays back before us, and we see it all: the good, the bad, the indiscriminate decisions and the endless possibilities. Our memory beyond death is in the story of our life. Those who remember us, remember what we did and who we are carry on our story. In that telling, our life goes on, we live on, and the story of our dreams interweaves ever more.
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