They Say That with Age You Become Invisible… That Suddenly You’re No Longer Important. That You’re in the Way. They Say It with Such Icy Indifference, It Hurts— As If Fading from Sight Is Part of the Contract of Growing Old. As If You’re Meant to Take the Corner… To Become Just Another Object in the Room— Silent, Motionless, Out of the Way. But I Wasn’t Born for Corners. I Won’t Ask Permission to Exist. I Won’t Lower My Voice So I Don’t Offend. I Wasn’t Put on This Earth to Become a Shadow of Myself, Nor to Shrink so Others Feel Comfortable. No, Ladies and Gentlemen. At This Age—When So Many Wait for Me to Dim… I Choose to Burn Brighter. I Don’t Apologise for My Wrinkles. I’m Proud of Them. Each One a Signature from Life— Proof I’ve Laughed, Wept, Loved, Endured. I Refuse to Stop Being a Woman Just Because I Don’t Fit the Filters, Or My Bones No Longer Fancy Heels. I Am Still Desire. I Am Still Creativity. I Am Still Freedom. And If That Upsets You… All the Better. I Feel No Shame for My Silver Hair. I’d Be Ashamed If I Hadn’t Lived Long Enough to Earn It. I Will Not Fade Away. I Will Not Surrender. And I Will Not Slip Off the Stage. I Still Dream. I Still Laugh Out Loud. I Still Dance—in My Own Way. I Still Cry to the Sky That I’ve Much Left to Say. I Am Not a Memory. I Am Here. I Am a Slow, Constant Flame. I Am an Undimmed Spirit. A Woman Marked by Life— No Longer Needing Emotional Crutches. A Woman Who Needs No One’s Approval to Know Her Strength. So Don’t Call Me “Poor Thing.” Don’t Overlook Me Just Because I’m Older. Call Me Brave. Call Me Strong. Call Me by My Name— With a Bold Voice and a Raised Glass. Call Me Milly. And Let It Be Known: I’m Still Here— Standing Tall, With a Soul That Still Burns.

Author Walton MerrittReading 2 minViews 1

They say that with age you become invisible
That youre no longer important. That youre in the way.
They say it with such coldness, it stings
as if fading from sight is part of the bargain for growing older.
As if youre meant to accept your corner
to become yet another silent fixture in the room,
wordless, motionless, out of the way.

But I was never made for corners.
I wont ask anyones permission to take up space.
I wont lower my voice so that others can feel comfortable.
I didnt come into this world to shrink into a shadow of myself,
nor to diminish so that others find life easier.
No, sir.

Now, at this agewhen so many expect me to fade away
I choose to catch fire.
I wont apologise for my wrinkles.
I take pride in them.
Each one is signed by life
a sign that I have loved, laughed, wept, and survived.

I refuse to stop being a woman
just because I wont fit into a filter,
or because my bones protest against high heels.
I remain desire.
I remain creativity.
I remain freedom.
And if that irritates
all the better.

Im not ashamed of my silver hair.
Id be ashamed only if I hadnt lived long enough to earn it.
Im not fading out.
Im not surrendering.
And Im not stepping off lifes stage.
I still dream.
I still laugh out loud.
I still dancehowever I can.
I still shout at the sky that I have so much more to say.

I am not a memory.
I am presence.
I am a steady flame.
I am a living soul.
A woman with scars
who no longer needs emotional crutches.
A woman who doesnt look to others to know her strength.

So dont call me poor thing.
Dont overlook me just because Im older.
Call me courageous.
Call me powerful.
Call me by my name
with a firm voice and a raised glass.
Call me Edith.

And let it be known:
I am still here
standing tall, with a spirit ablaze.

My Ex Invited Me to Dinner “to Apologise”… But I Came Bearing a Gift He Never Expected The invitation arrived on an ordinary day—which made it all the more striking. My phone buzzed while I was in the kitchen, hands wet, hair tied up hurriedly. Nothing in my world was prepared for the past. “Hey. Can we meet? Just for dinner. I need to tell you something.” I read the message slowly. Not because I didn’t understand the words. But because I could feel their weight. Years ago, I would have clung to that message like a lifebuoy. I’d have imagined it was a sign—the universe returning something it owed me. But I was no longer that woman. Now, I was a woman capable of switching off the lamp and falling asleep without waiting for anyone’s call. A woman who could be alone without feeling abandoned. A woman who no longer hands her peace to someone who once neglected it. And still… I replied. “All right. Where?” Only then did I realise: I hadn’t written “why.” I hadn’t written “what for.” I hadn’t written “how are you.” I hadn’t written “do I miss you.” That made me smile. I wasn’t trembling. I was choosing. The restaurant was one of those places where the light spills onto the tables like gold. Soft music, white tablecloths, expensive glass that sings quiet notes at a touch. I arrived slightly early. Not out of impatience. But because it’s always wise to have time to scan the room, find your exits, and arrange your thoughts. When he walked in, I didn’t recognise him at first. Not because he was different, but because he looked… tired. He wore a suit bought for a different man. Too much effort, too little ease. He saw me and his eyes lingered on my face longer than propriety allows. It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t love. It was the awkward admission: “She hasn’t stayed put where I left her.” “Hi,” he said, his voice softer. I nodded slightly. “Hello.” He sat. Ordered wine. Then, without asking, ordered for me—the same thing I used to like. Once, that gesture would have warmed my heart. Now, it seemed like a trick. Men sometimes think that remembering your taste wins them a place at your table again. I sipped my wine. Slowly. No rush. He started with something that sounded “right”: “You’re very beautiful.” He said it as if waiting for me to melt. I smiled slightly. “Thank you.” And nothing more. He swallowed. “I don’t know where to begin,” he added. “Start with the truth,” I said, calm. It was a strange moment. When a woman stops fearing the truth, the man across from her starts fearing to speak it. He stared at his glass. “I messed up with you.” Pause. His words arrived like a delayed train—rolling in, but no one waiting on the platform. “How?” I asked quietly. He gave a sour smile. “You know.” “No. Say it.” He met my eyes. “I… made you feel small.” There it was. Finally. He didn’t say, “I left you.” He didn’t say, “I cheated.” He didn’t say, “I was afraid of you.” He said it plainly: He had shrunk me to feel bigger himself. Then he began to talk. About stress. About ambition. About how “he wasn’t ready.” About how I was “too strong.” I listened carefully. Not to judge. But to see if this man had the spine to admit his fault without using me as his mirror. And when he finished, he exhaled: “I want to come back.” Just like that. No warning. No shame. As if returning was his natural right once he’d said “I’m sorry.” And here comes the moment women know too well: when the man from your past returns, not out of understanding, but because he hasn’t found a softer place for his ego. I looked at him and felt something unexpected. Not anger. Not pain. Clarity. He returned not with love, but need. And I was no longer the solution to someone else’s need. The dessert arrived. The waiter set a small dish in front of us. He looked at me expectantly. “Please… give me a chance.” Once, that “please” would have shaken me. Now it sounded like a late apology to a woman who’s already stepped out. I pulled a small box from my bag. Not a store gift. My own box—simple, elegant, unadorned. I placed it on the table between us. He blinked. “What’s this?” “For you,” I said. There was hope in his eyes—a flicker of the hope that women are still “soft,” still willing to give. He took the box and opened it. Inside was a key. A single, ordinary key on a plain keyring. He looked confused. “What… is this?” I sipped my wine and said calmly: “It’s the key to the old flat.” His face froze. That flat… those were our last days. That was where the humiliation happened, the one I never told anyone about. He remembered. Of course he remembered. The last time, he’d said to me: “Leave the key. It’s not yours anymore.” He’d said it as if I was a thing, not a person. And that day, I’d left the key on the table and walked out. No scene. No conversation. No explanation. But the truth is… I didn’t leave it. I’d kept the spare. Not for revenge. Because I knew: one day, I’d need to put a full stop. Every ending needs a full stop, not an ellipsis. And there I was, years later. Same man. Same table. But a different woman. “I kept it,” I said. “Not because I hoped you’d come back. But because I knew one day you’d want me back.” He grew pale. Tried to smile. “Is this… a joke?” “No,” I answered softly. “It’s closure.” I took the key from his hand, closed the box, and put it away. “I didn’t come to this dinner to take you back,” I said. “I came to be certain of something.” “Of what?” I looked at him. This time, I looked without love or hate. As a woman who sees the truth, unflinching. “That my decision back then was the right one.” He tried to speak, but the words stuck. There was a time he was used to having the last word. Now, the ending was in my hands. I stood. Left money for my share of the bill. He rose sharply. “Wait… so that’s it? That’s how it ends?” I smiled gently. Almost tenderly. “No. This is how it begins.” “How what begins?” “My life, without your attempts to return to it.” He stood motionless. I took my coat, slowly, with grace. A woman shouldn’t rush in such moments. And just before leaving, I looked back. “Thank you for dinner,” I said. “I have no more questions. No more ‘what ifs’.” Then I left. Outside, the air was crisp. Fresh. As if the city whispered: “Welcome to the freedom you deserve.” ❓And what about you? If an ex returned with an apology and wanted a new beginning, would you give him another chance—or close the door with grace and dignity?

00

My Mother-in-Law Publicly Called Me “Temporary”… So I Let Her Pass Her Own Judgement The First Time I Overheard My Mother-in-Law Laughing at Me Was in the Kitchen It Wasn’t Loud Laughter—It Was One of Those Quiet, Knowing Laughs That Seem to Say, “I Know Something You Don’t” I Was Standing Behind the Door with a Cup of Tea, Wondering for a Moment Whether to Enter—But I Did, Calmly and Unhurried, Without Flinching She Sat at the Table with Two Friends—Women Who Wore Gold, Perfume, and Confidence Like Jewellery And Then, With a Pause as If Searching for Just the Right Word, My Mother-in-Law Announced, “Here’s Our… Young Bride”—Making “Bride” Sound Like a Sample, Like Something That Might Just Be Returned to the Store I Smiled Politely—“Good Afternoon,” I Said—And She Invited Me to Sit, Not Out of Warmth but as Someone Who Wants a Better View I Took My Seat, Tea Still Warm, My Gaze Warmer Still She Looked Me Up and Down and Said, “You’re Very… Diligent. It Shows,”—The First Thorn of the Day I Nodded, As If Accepting a Compliment—“Thank You” One Friend Leaned Toward Me with That Syrupy Tone That Cuts While Pretending Sweetness, “So Tell Me, Where Did You… Come From?” My Mother-in-Law Laughed, “Just Appeared”—As If I Were Dust on the Furniture And Then She Said the Line I’ll Never Forget: “Don’t Worry, Girls. Ones Like Her… Are Temporary. They Pass Through a Man’s Life Until He Wakes Up.” There Were Three Seconds of Silence—Not the Dramatic Kind You Find in Novels, but the Silence of a Test Everyone Was Waiting to See How I Would React: Hurt, Embarrassed, Leave, Cry, or Respond Proudly That’s When I Realised Something Important: She Didn’t Hate Me—She Was Used to Being in Control, and I Was the First Woman Who Wouldn’t Hand Over the Remote I Looked at Her, Not as an Enemy, but as Someone Who Pronounces Judgements, Unaware She Might Be Delivering Her Own “Temporary…” I Repeated Softly, as if Pondering. “Interesting.” She Waited, Ready to Enjoy the Next Moment—But I Didn’t Give It to Her I Smiled and Stood, “I’ll Let You Finish Your Conversation. I Have Dessert to Prepare,”—And Walked Out I Didn’t Leave Humiliated—I Left Calm In the Weeks That Followed, I Noticed Little Things I Hadn’t Before—She Never Asked How I Was, Only What I Was Doing; Never “Glad You’re Well,” but “How Much Will That Cost?”; Rarely Used My Name, Just “She”—As If I Were Something Her Son Had Bought Without Her Approval Years Ago, This Would Have Broken Me—Now, I Wasn’t Looking to “Win” Anyone’s Approval—Just My Own I Started Keeping a Small Notebook—Not Out of Obsession, but for Clarity I Quietly Recorded Each Slight, The Words, The Audience, What Followed, How He (My Husband) Reacted He Wasn’t a Bad Man—Just a Convenient One to Manipulate: “Don’t Take It Personally,” He’d Say, “That’s Just How Mum Is,” But I Refused to Live in “Just How Mum Is” Then Came Family Dinner—Lavish, White Tablecloths, Candles, Fancy Plates She Loved Such Evenings—A Chance to Be Queen of the Stage I Wore an Emerald Green Dress—Nothing Flashy, But Presence that Could Not Be Ignored She Saw Me and Smiled Coldly, “Oh, Tonight You’ve Decided to Pretend to Be… a Lady”—Said Loud Enough for All to Hear Some Laughed, My Husband Smiled Awkwardly I Didn’t Respond Right Away—I Poured Water, Took a Sip, Looked at Her Calmly “You’re Right,” I Said Gently, “I Decided”—The Tone Threw Her Then She Began Her Game—During Dinner, She “Accidentally” Remarked, “You Know, I’ve Always Said My Son Needs a Woman of Our Level, Not Some… Fleeting Love”—More Laughter, More Glances She Continued, Drunk on Attention, “You Can Always Spot the Temporary Ones—They Try Too Hard, Doing Everything They Can to Seem Worthy”—Staring Me Straight in the Eye But I Don’t Fight on Someone Else’s Battlefield—I Let the Other Person Reveal Themselves So I Smiled and Said, “Funny How Someone Can Call Another ‘Temporary’ When They’re the Reason This Home Is Never at Peace” The Room Tilted—Some Heads Turned, Some Faces Froze My Mother-in-Law Narrowed Her Eyes, “Is That It? That’s What You Have to Say in Front of Everyone?” “No,” I Said Calmly, “I’m Not Saying Anything ‘in Front of Everyone’”—Then I Raised My Glass and Stepped Forward “I’ll Only Say This: Thank You for the Dinner, the Table, and Everyone’s Company. And Thank You for the Lessons—Not Everyone Is Lucky Enough to See the Truth of a Person So Clearly”—I Looked at Her Without Hate She Opened Her Mouth, But No Words Came—For the First Time, She Had No Comeback The Crowd Was Frozen My Husband Looked at Me as If Seeing Me for the First Time And Then I Did the Most Important Thing: I Didn’t Continue, Didn’t Insult, Didn’t Get Emotional, Didn’t Defend—Just Let My Words Fall Like a Feather and Weigh Like a Stone I Returned to My Seat and Began Cutting the Dessert as If Nothing Had Happened—But Everything Had Later, At Home, My Husband Stopped Me in the Hallway, “How Did You… Do That? Without Yelling, Without Breaking Down”—The First Time He Didn’t Defend His Mother, the First Time He Admitted There Was a Problem I Didn’t Push, Didn’t Argue, Didn’t Cry—Just Said, “I’m Not Fighting for a Place in Anyone’s Family. I Am Family. And If Someone Can’t Respect Me—They’ll Watch Me from Afar.” He Swallowed, “Does That Mean… You’ll Leave?” I Looked at Him Calmly, “No. Don’t Assume Sacrifice from Fear—We’ll Choose Out of Respect” That’s When He Understood: He Won’t Lose Me Through Shouting—He’ll Lose Me Quietly… If He Doesn’t Grow Up A Week Later, My Mother-in-Law Called—Her Voice Softer, Not from Remorse but Calculation “I’d Like to Talk,” She Said I Didn’t Ask “When”—I Said, “Go Ahead” She Was Silent, Then Admitted, “Maybe… I Went Too Far.” I Didn’t Smirk in Victory—Just Closed My Eyes a Moment “Yes,” I Said Calmly, “You Did.” Silence And Then I Added, “But You Know What’s Good? From Now On, Everything Will Be Different. Not Because You’ll Change… But Because I Already Have.” I Hung Up And I Didn’t Feel Triumph—I Felt Order When a Woman Stops Begging for Respect, the World Starts Offering It On Its Own ❓What Would You Have Done in My Place—Would You Keep Quiet “for the Sake of Peace,” or Stand Your Ground, Even If It Shakes the Whole Family Table?

010

When He Brought His Mistress to Our Anniversary, I Already Held the Photos That Would Knock the Air from His Lungs When the Woman in the Red Dress Sat Beside Him as if She’d Belonged There Forever, I Didn’t Flinch. Not Because It Didn’t Hurt—But Because in That Moment, I Realised Something Crucial: He Never Expected Me to Have Dignity. He Anticipated Hysteria. Drama. For Me to Be “the Difficult One.” But I Don’t Give Gifts to Those Who Betray Me. I Give Them Consequences. He Was the Man Who Always Spoke of Class. Of Image. Of “the Right Impression.” And That’s Exactly Why He Chose Our Anniversary to Do the Dirtiest Thing of All: To Quietly Humiliate Me in Front of Everyone. I Sat at the Table, Back Straight, in a Black Satin Dress—One of Those Dresses That Doesn’t Shout, but Simply Commands Attention. The Room Was Luxurious—Honeyed Lights, Champagne, Smiles Sharp as Diamond. A Place Where People Don’t Raise Their Voices, but Kill You With a Glance. He Walked in First. I—Half a Step Behind. As Always. And Just When I Thought His “Surprises” for the Night Were Over, He Turned to Me and Whispered: “Just Smile. Don’t Make a Scene.” “What Scene?” I Asked Calmly. “Those… Women’s Scenes. Just Act Normal. Tonight, Don’t Ruin My Mood.” And Then I Saw Her Approach. Not as a Guest, Not as a Friend, but as the Woman Who’d Already Taken My Place. She Sat Beside Him Without Asking, Without Any Embarrassment—As If the Table Was Hers. He Made One of Those “Polite” Introductions Men Think Can Wash Away Filth: “Meet… she’s just a colleague. Sometimes we work together.” And She—She Smiled at Me Like Someone Who’d Spent Years Practising in a Mirror. “Pleasure to meet you. He’s told me so much about you.” No One Else Understood. But I Did. Because a Woman Doesn’t Need an Announcement to Sense Betrayal. The Truth Was Simple: He’d Brought Me to Show Me Off as “The Official.” And He’d Brought Her to Show Her She Was Winning. They Were Both Wrong. The Story Had Started a Month Ago, With His Change. Not a New Scent, Not a New Haircut, Not New Clothes—But His Tone. He Started Speaking to Me Like My Presence Annoyed Him: “Don’t Ask Questions.” “Don’t Interfere.” “Don’t Act Important.” And One Night, While He Thought I Was Sleeping, He Got Up Quietly and Went Onto the Balcony With His Phone. I Couldn’t Hear His Words. But I Heard That Voice… The One Reserved Only For Women You Desire. The Next Day I Didn’t Ask. I Checked. And Instead of Hysteria, I Chose Something Else: Evidence. Not Because I Needed “the Truth”, But Because I Needed the Moment When the Truth Would Hurt Most. I Found the Right Person. A Woman Like Me Always Has That One Friend Who Sees Everything, but Says Little. She Simply Said: “Don’t Cry. Think First.” And Helped Me Get the Photos. Not Intimate. Not Indecent. Just Clear Enough for There to Be No “Explanation.” Photos of the Two Together—in a Car, in a Restaurant, in a Hotel Lobby. You Could See Not Just Closeness… But the Confidence of People Who Thought No One Would Catch Them. And So I Decided What My Weapon Would Be. Not Scandal. Not Tears. A Symbolic Gesture to Flip the Game. Not a Folder, Not a USB, Not a Black Envelope. A Cream-Coloured Envelope—Like an Official Invitation. Beautiful. Elegant. Discreet. When Someone Sees It, Danger Doesn’t Cross Their Mind. And That’s the Best Part. Inside, I Placed the Photos and a Small Handwritten Note With a Single Sentence: “I’m Not Here to Beg. I’m Here to End This.” Back to the Night. There We Sat at the Table. He Talked. She Laughed. I Stayed Silent. Somewhere Inside Me, There Was a Cold Point Called: Control. At One Moment, He Leaned Toward Me and Whispered Sharply, “See? People Are Watching. Don’t Make a Scene.” That’s When I Smiled. Not Like a Woman Who Was Swallowing Pain. But Like a Woman Who’d Already Finished. “While You Were Playing Your Game… I Was Arranging the Grand Finale.” I Stood Up. Slowly. Elegantly. No Dramatic Noise. And The Room Seemed to Pull Back. He Looked at Me With That Expression: What Are You Doing? The Look of a Man Who Can’t Imagine a Woman Having Her Own Plan. But I Did. The Envelope Was in My Hand. I Passed Them as If They Were Museum Pieces—Already Just Exhibits. I Set the Envelope Before Them, Right in the Middle of the Table, Under the Light. “This is for You,” I Said Calmly. He Laughed Awkwardly, Trying to Play It Off. “What Is This, Some Kind of Theatre?” “No. The Truth. On Paper.” She Tried to Open It First— Ego. That Special Greed to See Her “Victory.” But as Soon as She Saw the First Photo, Her Smile Disappeared. She Looked Down Like Someone Realising She’d Stepped Into a Trap. He Snatched the Photos. His Face Changed—from Confident to Pale. “What Is This?” He Hissed. “Evidence,” I Replied. And That’s When I Delivered the Line That Echoed to the Closest Tables: “While You Called Me a Decoration… I Was Gathering Evidence.” The Silence Hung Heavy. It Was As If the Whole Room Stopped Breathing. He Shot Up From His Chair. “You’re Wrong!” I Looked at Him Calmly and Said: “It’s Not About Being Right. It’s About Me Finally Being Free.” She Didn’t Dare Look Up. And He—He Realised the Worst Part Wasn’t the Photos. The Worst Part Was That I Wasn’t Shaking. I Looked at Them One Last Time. And I Made My Final Move. I Took One Photo—Not the Most Scandalous, But the Clearest—and Left It on Top Like a Seal. As If I Were Signing the End. Then I Straightened the Envelope, And Walked Toward the Exit. My Heels Sounded Like Full Stops in a Sentence that Had Waited for Years. At the Door, I Paused. Looked Back Only Once. He Was No Longer the Man Who Controlled the Room. He Was Someone Who Didn’t Know What He’d Say Tomorrow. Because That Night, Everyone Would Remember Just One Thing: Not the Mistress. Not the Photos. Me. And I Left. No Drama. With Dignity. The Last Thing I Said to Myself Was Simple: When a Woman Falls Silent Beautifully—that’s the End. If Someone Quietly Humiliated You in Public, Would You Walk Away With Class… Or Would You Leave the Truth on the Table?

09

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

They Say That with Age You Become Invisible… That Suddenly You’re No Longer Important. That You’re in the Way. They Say It with Such Icy Indifference, It Hurts— As If Fading from Sight Is Part of the Contract of Growing Old. As If You’re Meant to Take the Corner… To Become Just Another Object in the Room— Silent, Motionless, Out of the Way. But I Wasn’t Born for Corners. I Won’t Ask Permission to Exist. I Won’t Lower My Voice So I Don’t Offend. I Wasn’t Put on This Earth to Become a Shadow of Myself, Nor to Shrink so Others Feel Comfortable. No, Ladies and Gentlemen. At This Age—When So Many Wait for Me to Dim… I Choose to Burn Brighter. I Don’t Apologise for My Wrinkles. I’m Proud of Them. Each One a Signature from Life— Proof I’ve Laughed, Wept, Loved, Endured. I Refuse to Stop Being a Woman Just Because I Don’t Fit the Filters, Or My Bones No Longer Fancy Heels. I Am Still Desire. I Am Still Creativity. I Am Still Freedom. And If That Upsets You… All the Better. I Feel No Shame for My Silver Hair. I’d Be Ashamed If I Hadn’t Lived Long Enough to Earn It. I Will Not Fade Away. I Will Not Surrender. And I Will Not Slip Off the Stage. I Still Dream. I Still Laugh Out Loud. I Still Dance—in My Own Way. I Still Cry to the Sky That I’ve Much Left to Say. I Am Not a Memory. I Am Here. I Am a Slow, Constant Flame. I Am an Undimmed Spirit. A Woman Marked by Life— No Longer Needing Emotional Crutches. A Woman Who Needs No One’s Approval to Know Her Strength. So Don’t Call Me “Poor Thing.” Don’t Overlook Me Just Because I’m Older. Call Me Brave. Call Me Strong. Call Me by My Name— With a Bold Voice and a Raised Glass. Call Me Milly. And Let It Be Known: I’m Still Here— Standing Tall, With a Soul That Still Burns.