“She was a ray of sunshine, a warm summer rain, a bright fire on a cold winter’s day, and now she could be dead because she had tried to save the man she loved.”
―
Grace Willows
“No animal, according to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“You are my fantasy on a cold dark night, my muse during the light of day and the one wish my soul would make” ― Grace Willows
“A woman with a book never goes to bed alone.” ― Willow Winters, Bad Girl
“The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“The past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as I moved Southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call!” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“BOWLS OF FOODMoon and evening star do theirslow tambourine dance to praisethis universe. The purpose ofevery gathering is discovered:to recognize beauty and lovewhat’s beautiful. “Once it waslike that, now it’s like this,”the saying goes around town, andserious consequences too. Menand women turn their faces to thewall in grief. They lose appetite.Then they start eating the fire ofpleasure, as camels chew pungentgrass for the sake of their souls.Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground.Then green justice tenders a spear.Go outside to the orchard. Thesevisitors came a long way, past allthe houses of the zodiac, learningSomething new at each stop. Andthey’re here for such a short time,sitting at these tables set on theprow of the wind. Bowls of foodare brought out as answers, butstill no one knows the answer.Food for the soul stays secret.Body food gets put out in the openlike us. Those who work at a bakerydon’t know the taste of bread likethe hungry beggars do. Because thebeloved wants to know, unseen thingsbecome manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: buryyour seed and wait. After you die,All the thoughts you had will throngaround like children. The heartis the secret inside the secret.Call the secret language, and neverbe sure what you conceal. It’sunsure people who get the blessing.Climbing cypress, opening rose,Nightingale song, fruit, these areinside the chill November wind.They are its secret. We climb andfall so often. Plants have an innerBeing, and separate ways of talkingand feeling. An ear of corn bendsin thought. Tulip, so embarrassed.Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapessits with its feet stuck out.Narcissus gossiping about iris.Willow, what do you learn from runningwater? Humility. Red apple, what hasthe Friend taught you? To be sour.Peach tree, why so low? To let youreach. Look at the poplar, tall butwithout fruit or flower. Yes, ifI had those, I’d be self-absorbedlike you. I gave up self to watchthe enlightened ones. Pomegranatequestions quince, Why so pale? Forthe pearl you hid inside me. How didyou discover my secret? Your laugh.The core of the seen and unseenuniverses smiles, but remember,smiles come best from those who weep.Lightning, then the rain-laughter.Dark earth receives that clear andgrows a trunk. Melon and cucumbercome dragging along on pilgrimage.You have to be to be blessed!Pumpkin begins climbing a rope!Where did he learn that? Grass,thorns, a hundred thousand ants andsnakes, everything is looking forfood. Don’t you hear the noise?Every herb cures some illness.Camels delight to eat thorns. Weprefer the inside of a walnut, notthe shell. The inside of an egg,the outside of a date. What aboutyour inside and outside? The sameway a branch draws water up manyfeet, God is pulling your soulalong. Wind carries pollen fromblossom to ground. Wings andArabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit;they sing and tell what they thinkthey know: so-and-so will travelto such-and-such. The hoopoecarries a letter to Solomon. Thewise stork says lek-lek. Pleasetranslate. It’s time to go tothe high plain, to leave the winterhouse. Be your own watchman asbirds are. Let the rememberingbeads encircle you. I make promisesto myself and break them. Words arecoins: the vein of ore and themine shaft, what they speak of. Nowconsider the sun. It’s neitheroriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. Thismoment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpledinside, soaked in belief-yolk,under the wing of grace, until itbreaks free of mind to become thesong of an actual bird, and God.” ― Rumi, The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems
“The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture--the natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation. Moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far from home themselves, had something of wistfulnessin their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“The willow is full plumage and is no help, with its insinuating whispers.Rendevous, it says. Terraces;the sibilants run up my spine, a shiver as if in fever. The summer dress rustles against the flesh of my thighs, the grass grows underfoot, at the edges of my eyes there are movements, in the branches; feathers, flittings, grace notes, tree into bird, metamorphosis run wild. Goddesses are possible now and the air suffuses with desire...Winter is not so dangerous. I need hardness, cold, rigidity; not this heaviness, as if I'm a melon on a stem, this liquid ripeness. ” ― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale
“I love every part of you, the man who wants to forget and the man who suffered for his father’s sins.” ― Willow Winters, Forget Me Not
“When you’ve done everything you can, and you’re left with nothing but fear of both the unknown and the known, there’s only one way to describe it. That feeling is true terror.” ― Willow Winters, Depraved
“I've got my own moral compass to steer byA guiding star beats a spirit in the skyAnd all the preaching voices -Empty vessels ring so loudAs they move among the crowdFools and thieves are well disguisedIn the temple and market placeLike a stone in the riverAgainst the floods of springI will quietly resistLike the willows in the windOr the cliffs along the oceanI will quietly resistI don't have faith in faithI don't believe in beliefYou can call me faithlessI still cling to hopeAnd I believe in loveAnd that's faith enough for meI've got my own spirit level for balanceTo tell if my choice is leaning up or downAnd all the shouting voicesTry to throw me off my courseSome by sermon, some by forceFools and thieves are dangerousIn the temple and market placeLike a forest bows to winterBeneath the deep white silenceI will quietly resistLike a flower in the desertThat only blooms at nightI will quietly resist” ― Rush
“The sun was low in the sky, casting slant regal light. As they plodded along, the golden radiance intensified until it seemed to emanate from every feature of the land. Trees, brush, snow, hills. She couldn’t stop looking. The road led past frozen sloughs that bristled with scorched reeds. Clutches of red willow burned. The fans and whips of branches glowed, alive. Winter clouds formed patterns against the fierce gray sky. Scales, looped ropes, the bones of fish. The world was tender with significance.” ― Louise Erdrich, The Night Watchman
“He’s an Adonis. Pure and simple. And that fits, because I’m his Aphrodite.” ― Willow Winters, Begging for Bad Boys
“In the country, spring is a time of small happenings happening quietly, hyacinth shoots thrusting in a garden, willows burning with a sudden frosty fire of green, lengthening afternoons of long flowing dusk, and midnight rain opening lilac; but in the city there is the fanfare of organ-grinders, and odors, undiluted by winter wind, clog the air; windows long closed go up, and conversation, drifting beyond a room, collides with the jangle of a peddler's bell.” ― Truman Capote, The Complete Stories of Truman Capote
“In the deep woods of the far North, under feathery leaves of fern, was a great fairyland of merry elves, sometimes called forest brownies.These elves lived joyfully. They had everything at hand and did not need to worry much about living. Berries and nuts grew plentiful in the forest. Rivers and springs provided the elves with crystal water. Flowers prepared them drink from their flavorful juices, which the munchkins loved greatly. At midnight the elves climbed into flower cups and drank drops of their sweet water with much delight. Every elf would tell a wonderful fairy tale to the flower to thank it for the treat.Despite this abundance, the pixies did not sit back and do nothing. They tinkered with their tasks all day long. They cleaned their houses. They swung on tree branches and swam in forested streams. Together with the early birds, they welcomed the sunrise, listened to the thunder growling, the whispering of leaves and blades of grass, and the conversations of the animals.The birds told them about warm countries, sunbeams whispered of distant seas, and the moon spoke of treasures hidden deeply in the earth.In winter, the elves lived in abandoned nests and hollows. Every sunny day they came out of their burrows and made the forest ring with their happy shouts, throwing tiny snowballs in all directions and building snowmen as small as the pinky finger of a little girl. The munchkins thought they were giants five times as large as them.With the first breath of spring, the elves left their winter residences and moved to the cups of the snowdrop flowers. Looking around, they watched the snow as it turned black and melted. They kept an eye on the blossoming of hazel trees while the leaves were still sleeping in their warm buds. They observed squirrels moving their last winter supplies from storage back to their homes. Gnomes welcomed the birds coming back to their old nests, where the elves lived during winters. Little by little, the forest once more grew green.One moonlight night, elves were sitting at an old willow tree and listening to mermaids singing about their underwater kingdom. “Brothers! Where is Murzilka? He has not been around for a long time!” said one of the elves, Father Beardie, who had a long white beard. He was older than others and well respected in his striped stocking cap.“I’m here,” a snotty voice arose, and Murzilka himself, nicknamed Feather Head, jumped from the top of the tree. All the brothers loved Murzilka, but thought he was lazy, as he actually was. Also, he loved to dress in a tailcoat, tall black hat, boots with narrow toes, a cane and a single eyeglass, being very proud of that look.“Do you know where I’m coming from? The very Arctic Ocean!” roared he.Usually, his words were hard to believe. That time, though, his announcement sounded so marvelous that all elves around him were agape with wonder.“You were there, really? Were you? How did you get there?” asked the sprites. “As easy as ABC! I came by the fox one day and caught her packing her things to visit her cousin, a silver fox who lives by the Arctic Ocean. “Take me with you,” I said to the fox.“Oh, no, you’ll freeze there! You know, it’s cold there!” she said. “Come on.” I said. “What are you talking about? What cold? Summer is here.” “Here we have summer, but there they have winter,” she answered.“No,” I thought. “She must be lying because she does not want to give me a ride.” Without telling her a word, I jumped upon her back and hid in her bushy fur, so even Father Frost could not find me.Like it or not, she had to take me with her.We ran for a long time. Another forest followed our woods, and then a boundless plain opened, a swamp covered with lichen and moss. Despite the intense heat, it had not entirely thawed.“This is tundra,” said my fellow traveler. “Tundra? What is tundra?” asked I.“Tundra is a huge, forever frozen wetland covering the entire coast of the Arctic Ocean.” ― Anna Khvolson
“But we who remain shall grow oldWe shall know the coldOf cheerlessWinter and the rain of Autumn and the stingOf poverty, of love despised and of disgraces,And mirrors showing stained and aging faces, And the long ranges of comfortless yearsAnd the long gamut of human fears...But, for you, it shall forever be spring,And only you shall be forever fearless, And only you have white, straight, tireless limbs,And only you, where the water-lily swimsShall walk along the pathways thro' the willows Of your west. You who went West, and only you on silvery twilight pillows Shall take your restIn the soft sweet gloomsOf twilight rooms...” ― Ford Madox Ford (Ford Madox Hueffer )
“You can call me Jay if you want. I'll be anyone for you. I'll do anything for you. I only exist for you.” ― Willow Winters, Forget Me Not
“No animal, according to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“You are my fantasy on a cold dark night, my muse during the light of day and the one wish my soul would make” ― Grace Willows
“A woman with a book never goes to bed alone.” ― Willow Winters, Bad Girl
“The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“The past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as I moved Southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call!” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“BOWLS OF FOODMoon and evening star do theirslow tambourine dance to praisethis universe. The purpose ofevery gathering is discovered:to recognize beauty and lovewhat’s beautiful. “Once it waslike that, now it’s like this,”the saying goes around town, andserious consequences too. Menand women turn their faces to thewall in grief. They lose appetite.Then they start eating the fire ofpleasure, as camels chew pungentgrass for the sake of their souls.Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground.Then green justice tenders a spear.Go outside to the orchard. Thesevisitors came a long way, past allthe houses of the zodiac, learningSomething new at each stop. Andthey’re here for such a short time,sitting at these tables set on theprow of the wind. Bowls of foodare brought out as answers, butstill no one knows the answer.Food for the soul stays secret.Body food gets put out in the openlike us. Those who work at a bakerydon’t know the taste of bread likethe hungry beggars do. Because thebeloved wants to know, unseen thingsbecome manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: buryyour seed and wait. After you die,All the thoughts you had will throngaround like children. The heartis the secret inside the secret.Call the secret language, and neverbe sure what you conceal. It’sunsure people who get the blessing.Climbing cypress, opening rose,Nightingale song, fruit, these areinside the chill November wind.They are its secret. We climb andfall so often. Plants have an innerBeing, and separate ways of talkingand feeling. An ear of corn bendsin thought. Tulip, so embarrassed.Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapessits with its feet stuck out.Narcissus gossiping about iris.Willow, what do you learn from runningwater? Humility. Red apple, what hasthe Friend taught you? To be sour.Peach tree, why so low? To let youreach. Look at the poplar, tall butwithout fruit or flower. Yes, ifI had those, I’d be self-absorbedlike you. I gave up self to watchthe enlightened ones. Pomegranatequestions quince, Why so pale? Forthe pearl you hid inside me. How didyou discover my secret? Your laugh.The core of the seen and unseenuniverses smiles, but remember,smiles come best from those who weep.Lightning, then the rain-laughter.Dark earth receives that clear andgrows a trunk. Melon and cucumbercome dragging along on pilgrimage.You have to be to be blessed!Pumpkin begins climbing a rope!Where did he learn that? Grass,thorns, a hundred thousand ants andsnakes, everything is looking forfood. Don’t you hear the noise?Every herb cures some illness.Camels delight to eat thorns. Weprefer the inside of a walnut, notthe shell. The inside of an egg,the outside of a date. What aboutyour inside and outside? The sameway a branch draws water up manyfeet, God is pulling your soulalong. Wind carries pollen fromblossom to ground. Wings andArabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit;they sing and tell what they thinkthey know: so-and-so will travelto such-and-such. The hoopoecarries a letter to Solomon. Thewise stork says lek-lek. Pleasetranslate. It’s time to go tothe high plain, to leave the winterhouse. Be your own watchman asbirds are. Let the rememberingbeads encircle you. I make promisesto myself and break them. Words arecoins: the vein of ore and themine shaft, what they speak of. Nowconsider the sun. It’s neitheroriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. Thismoment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpledinside, soaked in belief-yolk,under the wing of grace, until itbreaks free of mind to become thesong of an actual bird, and God.” ― Rumi, The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems
“The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture--the natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation. Moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far from home themselves, had something of wistfulnessin their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“The willow is full plumage and is no help, with its insinuating whispers.Rendevous, it says. Terraces;the sibilants run up my spine, a shiver as if in fever. The summer dress rustles against the flesh of my thighs, the grass grows underfoot, at the edges of my eyes there are movements, in the branches; feathers, flittings, grace notes, tree into bird, metamorphosis run wild. Goddesses are possible now and the air suffuses with desire...Winter is not so dangerous. I need hardness, cold, rigidity; not this heaviness, as if I'm a melon on a stem, this liquid ripeness. ” ― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale
“I love every part of you, the man who wants to forget and the man who suffered for his father’s sins.” ― Willow Winters, Forget Me Not
“When you’ve done everything you can, and you’re left with nothing but fear of both the unknown and the known, there’s only one way to describe it. That feeling is true terror.” ― Willow Winters, Depraved
“I've got my own moral compass to steer byA guiding star beats a spirit in the skyAnd all the preaching voices -Empty vessels ring so loudAs they move among the crowdFools and thieves are well disguisedIn the temple and market placeLike a stone in the riverAgainst the floods of springI will quietly resistLike the willows in the windOr the cliffs along the oceanI will quietly resistI don't have faith in faithI don't believe in beliefYou can call me faithlessI still cling to hopeAnd I believe in loveAnd that's faith enough for meI've got my own spirit level for balanceTo tell if my choice is leaning up or downAnd all the shouting voicesTry to throw me off my courseSome by sermon, some by forceFools and thieves are dangerousIn the temple and market placeLike a forest bows to winterBeneath the deep white silenceI will quietly resistLike a flower in the desertThat only blooms at nightI will quietly resist” ― Rush
“The sun was low in the sky, casting slant regal light. As they plodded along, the golden radiance intensified until it seemed to emanate from every feature of the land. Trees, brush, snow, hills. She couldn’t stop looking. The road led past frozen sloughs that bristled with scorched reeds. Clutches of red willow burned. The fans and whips of branches glowed, alive. Winter clouds formed patterns against the fierce gray sky. Scales, looped ropes, the bones of fish. The world was tender with significance.” ― Louise Erdrich, The Night Watchman
“He’s an Adonis. Pure and simple. And that fits, because I’m his Aphrodite.” ― Willow Winters, Begging for Bad Boys
“In the country, spring is a time of small happenings happening quietly, hyacinth shoots thrusting in a garden, willows burning with a sudden frosty fire of green, lengthening afternoons of long flowing dusk, and midnight rain opening lilac; but in the city there is the fanfare of organ-grinders, and odors, undiluted by winter wind, clog the air; windows long closed go up, and conversation, drifting beyond a room, collides with the jangle of a peddler's bell.” ― Truman Capote, The Complete Stories of Truman Capote
“In the deep woods of the far North, under feathery leaves of fern, was a great fairyland of merry elves, sometimes called forest brownies.These elves lived joyfully. They had everything at hand and did not need to worry much about living. Berries and nuts grew plentiful in the forest. Rivers and springs provided the elves with crystal water. Flowers prepared them drink from their flavorful juices, which the munchkins loved greatly. At midnight the elves climbed into flower cups and drank drops of their sweet water with much delight. Every elf would tell a wonderful fairy tale to the flower to thank it for the treat.Despite this abundance, the pixies did not sit back and do nothing. They tinkered with their tasks all day long. They cleaned their houses. They swung on tree branches and swam in forested streams. Together with the early birds, they welcomed the sunrise, listened to the thunder growling, the whispering of leaves and blades of grass, and the conversations of the animals.The birds told them about warm countries, sunbeams whispered of distant seas, and the moon spoke of treasures hidden deeply in the earth.In winter, the elves lived in abandoned nests and hollows. Every sunny day they came out of their burrows and made the forest ring with their happy shouts, throwing tiny snowballs in all directions and building snowmen as small as the pinky finger of a little girl. The munchkins thought they were giants five times as large as them.With the first breath of spring, the elves left their winter residences and moved to the cups of the snowdrop flowers. Looking around, they watched the snow as it turned black and melted. They kept an eye on the blossoming of hazel trees while the leaves were still sleeping in their warm buds. They observed squirrels moving their last winter supplies from storage back to their homes. Gnomes welcomed the birds coming back to their old nests, where the elves lived during winters. Little by little, the forest once more grew green.One moonlight night, elves were sitting at an old willow tree and listening to mermaids singing about their underwater kingdom. “Brothers! Where is Murzilka? He has not been around for a long time!” said one of the elves, Father Beardie, who had a long white beard. He was older than others and well respected in his striped stocking cap.“I’m here,” a snotty voice arose, and Murzilka himself, nicknamed Feather Head, jumped from the top of the tree. All the brothers loved Murzilka, but thought he was lazy, as he actually was. Also, he loved to dress in a tailcoat, tall black hat, boots with narrow toes, a cane and a single eyeglass, being very proud of that look.“Do you know where I’m coming from? The very Arctic Ocean!” roared he.Usually, his words were hard to believe. That time, though, his announcement sounded so marvelous that all elves around him were agape with wonder.“You were there, really? Were you? How did you get there?” asked the sprites. “As easy as ABC! I came by the fox one day and caught her packing her things to visit her cousin, a silver fox who lives by the Arctic Ocean. “Take me with you,” I said to the fox.“Oh, no, you’ll freeze there! You know, it’s cold there!” she said. “Come on.” I said. “What are you talking about? What cold? Summer is here.” “Here we have summer, but there they have winter,” she answered.“No,” I thought. “She must be lying because she does not want to give me a ride.” Without telling her a word, I jumped upon her back and hid in her bushy fur, so even Father Frost could not find me.Like it or not, she had to take me with her.We ran for a long time. Another forest followed our woods, and then a boundless plain opened, a swamp covered with lichen and moss. Despite the intense heat, it had not entirely thawed.“This is tundra,” said my fellow traveler. “Tundra? What is tundra?” asked I.“Tundra is a huge, forever frozen wetland covering the entire coast of the Arctic Ocean.” ― Anna Khvolson
“But we who remain shall grow oldWe shall know the coldOf cheerlessWinter and the rain of Autumn and the stingOf poverty, of love despised and of disgraces,And mirrors showing stained and aging faces, And the long ranges of comfortless yearsAnd the long gamut of human fears...But, for you, it shall forever be spring,And only you shall be forever fearless, And only you have white, straight, tireless limbs,And only you, where the water-lily swimsShall walk along the pathways thro' the willows Of your west. You who went West, and only you on silvery twilight pillows Shall take your restIn the soft sweet gloomsOf twilight rooms...” ― Ford Madox Ford (Ford Madox Hueffer )
“You can call me Jay if you want. I'll be anyone for you. I'll do anything for you. I only exist for you.” ― Willow Winters, Forget Me Not
