|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Betty Zane by Zane Grey:
head on the bench and had lost all sense of time and place. What were the
women sobbing and crying over? To whom belonged that white face? Of course, it
was the face of the girl he loved. The face of the girl who had gone to her
death. And he writhed in his agony.
Then something wonderful happened. A warm, living flush swept over that pale
face. The eyelids fluttered; they opened, and the dark eyes, radiant,
beautiful, gazed straight into Alfred's.
Still Alfred could not believe his eyes. That pale face and the wonderful eyes
belonged to the ghost of his sweetheart. They had come back to haunt him. Then
he heard a voice.
"O-h! but that brown place burns!"
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin by Robert Louis Stevenson:
(Mrs. Alice Dunns) leaving the house after twenty-two years of
service, it was not unnatural that he should return to dreams of
Italy. He and his wife were to go (as he told me) on 'a real
honeymoon tour.' He had not been alone with his wife 'to speak
of,' he added, since the birth of his children. But now he was to
enjoy the society of her to whom he wrote, in these last days, that
she was his 'Heaven on earth.' Now he was to revisit Italy, and
see all the pictures and the buildings and the scenes that he
admired so warmly, and lay aside for a time the irritations of his
strenuous activity. Nor was this all. A trifling operation was to
restore his former lightness of foot; and it was a renovated youth
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Albert Savarus by Honore de Balzac:
adored, while sitting so close to her that one cheek was almost
touched by the stuff of her dress and the gauze of her scarf. But
when, at such a moment, /Mi manca la voce/ is being sung, and by the
finest voices in Italy, it is easy to understand what it was that
brought the tears to Rodolphe's eyes.
In love, as perhaps in all else, there are certain circumstances,
trivial in themselves, but the outcome of a thousand little previous
incidents, of which the importance is immense, as an epitome of the
past and as a link with the future. A hundred times already we have
felt the preciousness of the one we love; but a trifle--the perfect
touch of two souls united during a walk perhaps by a single word, by