I love my past. I love my present. I'm not ashamed of what I've had, and I'm not sad because I have it no longer. — Colette. French novelist (1873–1954)
There are days when solitude, for someone my age, is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.