It Is Always Hard To Believe That

Electricity, The Peril The Wind Sings To In The Wires On A Gray Day.

Conversation Is The Wall We Build Between Ourselves And Other People, Too Often With Tired Words Like Used And Broken Bottles Which, Catching The Sunlight As They Lie Embedded In The Wall, Are Mistaken For Jewels.

The Only Certainty About Writing And Trying To Be A Writer Is That It Has To Be Done, Not Dreamed Of Or Planned And Never Written, Or Talked About (the Ego Eventually Falls Apart Like A Soaked Sponge), But Simply Written; It's A Dreadful, Awful Fact That Writing Is Like Any Other Work.

Time Past Is Not Time Gone, It Is Time Accumulated With The Host Resembling The Character In The Fairytale Who Was Joined Along The Route By More And More Characters None Of Whom Could Be Separated From One Another Or From The Host, With Some Stuck So Fast That Their Presence Caused Physical Pain.

They Think I'm Going To Be A Schoolteacher But I'm Going To Be A Poet.