It All Meant Something. Until It Didn't.

Good Artists Exist In What They Make, And Consequently Are Perfectly Uninteresting In What They Are.

We See The Beauty Within And Cannot Say No.

Pain Comes At Me And I Take It, Chew It For A Few Minutes, And Spit It Back Out. It's Just Not My Thing Anymore.

Tim O'brien's Book About Vietnam, The Things They Carried, Has Won Every Award, Is Studied In College And Is Considered To Be Definitive. But It's Fiction.

I Like The Dark Part Of The Night, After Midnight And Before Four-thirty, When It's Hollow, When Ceilings Are Harder And Farther Away. Then I Can Breathe, And Can Think While Others Are Sleeping, In A Way Can Stop Time, Can Have It So – This Has Always Been My Dream – So That While Everyone Else Is Frozen, I Can Work Busily About Them, Doing Whatever It Is That Needs To Be Done, Like The Elves Who Make The Shoes While Children Sleep.