We Get So Caught Up In What

Why Do I Write? The Truth, The Unvarnished Truth, Is That I Haven't A Clue.

Old As He Was, He Still Missed His Daddy Sometimes.

It's As If I've Arrived In A Place Where It's All Spirit And No Body -- An Overwhelming Sense Of Calm . . . I Actually Began To Feel Blessed.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.

The Last Time You're Doing Something - Knowing You're Doing It For The Last - Makes It Even More Alive Than The First.