She Pulls Away, Pats Me On The

You Have What I Can Afford To Give. You Are A Panhandler, Begging For Anything, And I Am The Man Walking Briskly By, Tossing A Quarter Or So Into Your Paper Cup. I Can Afford To Give You This. This Does Not Break Me.

I Think There's A Future Where The Web And Print Coexist And They Each Do Things Uniquely And Complement Each Other, And We Have What Could Be The Ultimate And Best-yet Array Of Journalistic Venues.

We Are Unusual And Tragic And Alive.

I Will Not Wait To Love As Best As I Can. We Thought We Were Young And That There Would Be Time To Love Well Sometime In The Future. This Is A Terrible Way To Think. It Is No Way To Live, To Wait To Love.

Every Time I Get Through The Work On A Book Of Nonfiction, I Say I'll Never Do It Again; It Takes So Much Out Of You.