The Other Writer Who Had A Very

Oh, Love. Love Is Best Of All. There Is No Such Total Element, Not Even Pain. Who Has Ever Loved, Knows This. I Need Not Say More.

If They Had Said My Writing Wasn't Good Enough, Fair Enough, That's An Opinion. But To Say It's Too Complex Is To Insult The Intelligence Of The So-called Young.

She Looked, And A Scarlet Butterfly Flew Away From Her, Away Down The Length Of The Tower, And Then Another, Another, An Unraveling Scarf Of Butterflies Like Winged Blood.

It's Lovely. I Hate It.

Some Writers, Of Course, Simply Write, As They Feel They Are Driven To Do, By Outer/inner Inspirations. If, After The Work Is Written And, Hopefully, Published, Others Respond -- That Is The Champagne. But We, Or Some Of Us, Don't Write For The Champagne. We Write Because We Write.