One Small Cloud, Cast Out By The

The Stars Looked Like Nail Heads In The Sky--pull A Few Of Them Out And The Darkness Would Fall.

I Don't Know Of A Greater Privilege Than Being Allowed To Tell A Story, Or To Listen To A Story. They're The Only Thing We Have That Can Trump Life Itself.

She Was Tired Of Everyone Wanting To Go To Heaven, Nobody Wanting To Die. The Only Thing Worth Grieving Over, She Said, Was That Sometimes There Was More Beauty In This Life Than The World Could Bear.

The War Was About Vanity, He Said. It Was About Old Men Who Couldn't Look In The Mirror Anymore And So They Sent The Young Out To Die. Was Was A Get-together Of The Vain. They Wanted It Simple--hate Your Enemy, Know Nothing Of Him.

Stories Are There To Be Told, And Each Story Changes With The Telling. Time Changes Them. Logic Changes Them. Grammar Changes Them. History Changes Them. Each Story Is Shifted Side-ways By Each Day That Unfolds. Nothing Ends. The Only Thing That Matters, As Faulkner Once Put It, Is The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself. At The Heart Of All This Is The Possibility, Or Desire, To Create A Piece Of Art That Talks To The Human Instinct For Recovery And Joy.