Maybe You Can Make Art Out Of

The Earth Is Mostly Just A Boneyard. But Pretty In The Sunlight.

Through My College Years, Topping That Ridge Had Always Given Me A Great Sense Of Being Home, But Time Had Diminished The Emotion And I Had Begun To Suspect That Home Was Less A Place Than An Empty Page.

Maybe You Can Make Art Out Of Unredeemed Pain, But Only If You're A Genius -- Dostoyevsky Perhaps.

The Lives Of Happy People Are Dense With Their Own Doings -- Crowded, Active, Thick. But The Sorrowing Are Nomads, On A Plain With Few Landmarks And No Boundaries; Sorrow's Horizons Are Vague And Its Demands Are Few.

Anyway, Whacking A Surly Bartender Ain't Much Of A Crime.