by Alice Hoffman
I once believed that life was a gift. I thought whatever I wanted I could someday possess. Is that greed, or only youth? Is it hope or stupidity? As far as I was concerned, the future was a book that I could write to suite myself, chapter after chapter of good fortune. All was right in the world, and my place in it was assured, or so I thought then. I had no idea that all stories unfold like white flowers, petal by petal, each in it's own time and season, dependant on circumstances and fate. The future is something no one can foretell.
