I Love To Write, So It Rarely

Narrative Becomes The Way You Make Sense Of Chaos. That's How You Focus The World. It's The Only Reason You Should Ever Try This Writing Job.

Happiness Comes In Moments, & Then It's Gone Until The Next Time. Could Be Years. But Sadness Settles It.

The World According To Bubba Is Simple - If It Aggravates You, Stop It. By Whatever Means Necessary.

Happiness Doesn't Lie In Conspicuous Consumption And The Relentless Amassing Of Useless Crap. Happiness Lies In The Person Sitting Beside You And Your Ability To Talk To Them. Happiness Is Clear-headed Human Interaction And Empathy. Happiness Is Home. And Home Is Not A House-home Is A Mythological Conceit. It Is A State Of Mind. A Place Of Communion And Unconditional Love. It Is Where, When You Cross Its Threshold, You Finally Feel At Peace.

It Had Occurred To Sean Once - On A Bender About Ten Years Before With Some Buddies, Sean And A Bloodstream Full Of Bourbon Turning Philosophical - That Maybe They Had Gotten In That Car. All Three Of Them. And What They Now Thought Of As Their Life Was Just A Dream State. That All Three Of Them Were, In Reality, Still Eleven-year-old Boys Trapped In Some Cellar, Imagining What They'd Become If They Ever Escaped And Grew Up.