I'm Not Independently Wealthy.

You Shall Be My Roots And I Will Be Your Shade, Though The Sun Burns My Leaves. You Shall Quench My Thirst And I Will Feed You Fruit, Though Time Takes My Seed. And When I'm Lost And Can Tell Nothing Of This Earth You Will Give Me Hope. And My Voice You Will Always Hear. And My Hand You Will Always Have. For I Will Shelter You. And I Will Comfort You. And Even When We Are Nothing Left, Not Even In Death, I Will Remember You.

Passion Has Little To Do With Euphoria And Everything To Do With Patience. It Is Not About Feeling Good. It Is About Endurance. Like Patience, Passion Comes From The Same Latin Root: Pati. It Does Not Mean To Flow With Exuberance. It Means To Suffer.

The Thread Has Snapped. No Sound Even To Mark The Breaking Let Alone The Fall. That Long Anticipated Disintegration, When The Darkest Angel Of All, The Horror Beyond All Horrors, Sits At Last Upon My Chest, Permanently Enfolding Me In Its Great Covering Wings, Black As Ink, Veined In Bees' Purple. A Creature Without A Voice. A Voice Without A Name. As Immortal As My Life. Come Here At Long Last To Summon The Wind.

Prometheus, Thief Of Light, Giver Of Light, Bound By The Gods, Must Have Been A Book.

Literature Is Capable Of Being A Subject That People Want To Catch Up On Or Discuss, Whether At A Coffee Shop Or A Watercooler. It Can Become An Intrinsic Part Of Their Dialogue.