I'm reading a book of childhood memories by Anthony Eden, Lord Avon, onetime Prime Minister of England. It brings to mind the reality of everyone's childhood memories and England and glimpses of another world, which is the title of his book. Time is so strange. All the advances and thoughts change the fabric of our existence. Individual lives and decisions. Lives cut short or unrecorded. Memories particular to one person never expressed. And those that are can be woven into another's conciousness through the reading. I love being present in that world, being there one hundred years ago or more, to see his lovely sister as a bride, and his feelings on the page. But it is only a tiny slice of his whole life, and only published because he was a famous and noted man. How can anyone save life? All those unrecorded memories are consumed in death. Perhaps there are mighty books in some library above, recording every action against the day of judgement. I heard an analogy once of angels constantly writing the deeds of your life with invisible ink; only the good deeds show up, the bad are left off. Surely only for those that have Yahshua washing their transgressions away. Stuart said that the footprints we leave behind matter most. These literary footprints have their own stride, rhythm and tread, telling us tales about an otherwise inaccesible time. I'm reminded of Sherlock Holmes, deducting many facts from footprints left at a scene.

Reading: Another World by Anthony Eden - and - The Autobiography of David Crockett.

Listening: The Man Who by Travis

Watching: Remains of the Day

Playing: with my dog, Sam.

Feeling: Cold, because the fan is on.