PO Box 1980

Remembering after ninety days. . .Meekly sitting in a large room that smells of coffee and shellac, hums with conversation and laughter, promises with experience and example that, if there is a tomorrow, it can be brighter than all those dark yesterdays. A tiny spark illuminates total blackness--and grows as it glows. It can become an eternal flame. It can blaze on and illuminate all the tomorrows that may lie ahead with a brightness that nothing can diminish, no one can jeopardize. A selfishness for a continuing feeling of cherished sobriety seems to dominate all other thoughts. When you are no longer drowning, everything seems to matter again. When there is a future--a change--there are hopes and plans. When there are large rooms, coffee and shellac, conversation and laughter, experience and example, there is promise. Why? Why not?