Words on a page

Cecilia Olivia Moore had never once met with disappointment. She sat by her sister Rebecca's bed for hours the night the girl first had her heart broken. Ceci herself maintained the good fortune of a young heart still intact, but all the same she declared to her sister her fixed hatred for all members of the wealthy class and stubbornly refused to characterize them as anything but heartless, self-centered snobs. From that day, she vowed never to associate with anyone claiming the status, and for a long time easily fulfilled the promise. The wrong endured by her elder sister at the hands of a young gentleman (perpetually bedecked in ridiculous finery in Ceci's memory) was fresh in Ceci's mind even after Becca was taken up by a young lawyer and swept off to the coast of Ireland.
Such was Ceci's worst fault: that of stubborn, unforgiving prejudice induced by any disappointment suffered by the ones she loved. Not such a terrible vice, perhaps, especially given her reasoning.

In any case, Miss Cecilia Moore was the daughter of a middle-class gentleman. Mr. Timothy Moore boasted two most noteworthy treasures: a remarkably large library for so small a household space and an impressive acreage of meadow, farm and wooded land. The first was mainly on account of the interests of his daughter Ceci, the second thanks to an inheritance that spanned five generations. The land Mr. Moore retained had been Moore land for as long as the eldest grandfathers of the town could remember; it was a burdensome honor that would be passed to Quincy, Mr. Moore's eldest son and youngest child.

Though Ceci loved her father's land much more than her little brother Quincy, she recognized her fate from an early age. She would receive little to no inheritance--money or land; thus her primary duty was to secure a successful husband who might offer her comfort and protection. If she succeeded in that scheme, she would be expected to provide grandchildren.
Still, at nineteen, she did not fret. As yet she had no reason; she had never once been disappointed.

Baby

L-O-V-E

Oh Art building, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Oh, the beauteous gargoyles that bedeck your brick exterior; the bronze statues that beautify your grass grounds; the charcoal dust embedded in the concrete outside your squeaky doors; the graffiti outlines that stain the ground of your sidewalks; the dangerous wire and netting that poke out from your entrances from forgotten student projects; the lovely whiteness of your sunny windowed gallery; the bumper stickers and odd expired art show pamphlets that hang from studio doors; the creepy clay-stained bathroom doors; randomly placed chairs, wooden blocks, misplaced drawings and paper-cutters; the warm studios but freezing lecture hall; and the apple trees that blossom outside your windows without fail every spring. Oh Art building, how I love thee. And how I look to the time I may spend within you next fall in your painting studio. I always treasure the time we spend together.

Our little life

PROSPERO:

These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest
Act 4, Scene 1