Depression Is Anger Slowed Down; Panic Is

Tell The Story, Gather The Events, Repeat Them. Pattern Is A Matter Of Upkeep. Otherwise The Weave Relaxes Back To Threads Picked Up By Birds To Make Their Nests. Repeat, Or The Story Will Fall And All The King's Horses And All The King's Men. . . . Repeat, And Cradle The Pieces Carefully, Or Events Will Scatter Like Marbles On A Wooden Floor.

She's No Lady. Her Songs Are All Unbelievably Unhappy Or Lewd. It's Called Blues. She Sings About Sore Feet, Sexual Relations, Baked Goods, Killing Your Lover, Being Broke, Men Called Daddy, Women Who Dress Like Men, Working, Praying For Rain. Jail And Trains. Whiskey And Morphine. She Tells Stories Between Verses And Everyone In The Place Shouts Out How True It All Is.

They Are So Young, They Forget That The World Is Not As In Love With Them As They Are.

Memory Plays Tricks. Memory Is Another Word For Story, And Nothing Is More Unreliable.

Hope Is A Gift. You Can't Choose To Have It. To Believe And Yet To Have No Hope Is To Thirst Beside A Fountain.