Smile for the people who make you cry
Cry for the people who make you smile

I kept asking myself if I felt different, if I was different. The answer was always yes. I was no longer nothing…  How odd, I thought; it had taken my mother’s death, Father Quinel’s murder, and the desire of others to kill me to claim a life of my own.

My memory of my mom is a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was a runway fashion model, and she was quite a glamorous woman.

The smallest seed of faith is better than the largest fruit of happiness.

Written By Henry David Thoreau

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