A Myth Is More Powerful - And

Self-consciousness Is Really A Form Of Egotism.

Not Only Is Your Story Worth Telling, But It Can Be Told In Words So Painstakingly Eloquent That It Becomes A Song.

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

A Star Dies In Heaven Every Time You Snatch Away Someone's Dream.

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.