"The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings..."
Shakespeare said this, through the lips of Portia, in The Merchant of Venice.
On occasion, mercy is withheld, and blistering sun besets us all, to torment with burning zeal.
Ever so often, though, the weather changes, the clouds gather, the mists rise, and mercy rains.
I am ill-enough used to such places, I breathe carefully in them, anxious not to disturb, lest all cool mist on places burnt and burned is blown away.
I have much to write on, much to think on, much to reflect on. It may take me days to organize it all.
But in the meantime...I sit here, for my reflections.
It is a very, very good place. It is a healing place. It is a gift.
And it's mine. Mine, and my architect scientist's, my creator of automated toys; mine, and my fellow shapeshifter lady, my well of quiet strength.
The train wreck?
Never came close to here.