Every Heart Has Its Graveyard.

Mystery Is The Essence Of Divinity

She Stood There Until Something Fell Off The Shelf Inside Her. Then She Went Inside There To See What It Was. It Was Her Image Of Jody Tumbled Down And Shattered. But Looking At It She Saw That It Never Was The Flesh And Blood Figure Of Her Dreams. Just Something She Had Grabbed Up To Drape Her Dreams Over.

So She Sat On The Porch And Watched The Moon Rise. Soon Its Amber Fluid Was Drenching The Earth, And Quenching The Thirst Of The Day.

Perhaps, It Is Just As Well To Be Rash And Foolish For A While. If Writers Were Too Wise, Perhaps No Books Would Be Written At All. It Might Be Better To Ask Yourself "why?" Afterwards Than Before. Anyway, The Force From Somewhere In Space Which Commands You To Write In The First Place, Gives You No Choice. You Take Up The Pen When You Are Told, And Write What Is Commanded. There Is No Agony Like Bearing An Untold Story Inside You.

I Am Not Tragically Colored. There Is No Great Sorrow Dammed Up In My Soul, Nor Lurking Behind My Eyes. I Do Not Mind At All. I Do Not Belong To The Sobbing School Of Negrohood Who Hold That Nature Somehow Has Given Them A Lowdown Dirty Deal And Whose Feelings Are All Hurt About It. Even In The Helter-skelter Skirmish That Is My Life, I Have Seen That The World Is To The Strong Regardless Of A Little Pigmentation More Or Less. No, I Do Not Weep At The World—i Am Too Busy Sharpening My Oyster Knife.