"Morning walkers have purpose to fulfill, they are moving on to the battlefield, they try to survive and strive to come back whole." "Evening walkers, hmm?" He sighed. I looked at him, noticing for the first time, the lines on his forehead, crinkled by old age. "What happens to the evening walkers?" I asked. "Evening walkers have lost their souls, they are caught up in their daily routines or worries, that they've lost touch with their inner selves, or their sense of purpose. Evening walkers are the soldiers that fail to make it back, even if they return, they return in pieces, broken, vulnerable, and confused." He stopped, picked up his chair: "Life is a book. Think about it." And he left. I went home that day, thinking something new, pondering over his last statement: "Life is a book." Sitting down at my desk in the study, I figured it out as I picked up a book to read. I studied the book like it was something new; the book was life – everyday a new page, our experiences a new chapter.