Hands Make The World Each Day.

Hate Is Like A Swordfish, Working Through Water Invisibly And Then You See It Coming With Blood Along Its Blade, But Transparency Disarms It.

For Me Writing Is Like Breathing. I Could Not Live Without Breathing And I Could Not Live Without Writing.

In The Distance Someone Is Singing.

There's A Country Spread Out In The Sky, A Credulous Carpet Of Rainbows And Crepuscular Plants: I Move Toward It Just A Bit Haggardly, Trampling A Gravedigger's Rubble Still Moist From The Spade To Dream In A Bedlam Of Vegetables.

The Truth Is In The Prolouge. Death To The Romantic Fool., The Expert In Solitary Confinement.