Now I Think All Of Us Were

Dead Fields Under A November Sky, Scattered Rose Petals Brown And Turning Up At The Edges, Empty Pools Scummed With Algae, Rot, Decomposition, Dust.

Now Comes The Big Question: What Are You Going To Write About? And The Equally Big Answer: Anything You Damn Well Want. Anything At All .... As Long As You Tell The Truth.

I Think A Lot Of Times Dreams Are Nothing More Than A Kind Of Mental Or Spiritual Flatulence. They're A Way Of Relieving Pressure.

Home Is Watching The Moon Rise Over The Open, Sleeping Land And Having Someone You Can Call To The Window, So You Can Look Together. Home Is Where You Dance With Others, And Dancing Is Life.

The Road And The Tale Have Both Been Long, Would You Not Say So? The Trip Has Been Long And The Cost Has Been High... But No Great Thing Was Ever Attained Easily. A Long Tale, Like A Tall Tower, Must Be Built A Stone At A Time.