Everything In Life Is Writable.

What Did My Fingers Do Before They Held Him? What Did My Heart Do, With Its Love?

The Silence Depressed Me. It Wasn't The Silence Of Silence. It Was My Own Silence.

How Frail The Human Heart Must Be - A Mirrored Pool Of Thought.

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing.

Oh, Something Is There, Waiting For Me. Perhaps Someday The Revelation Will Burst In Upon Me And I Will See The Other Side Of This Monumental Grotesque Joke. And Then I'll Laugh. And Then I'll Know What Life Is.