I Do What I Do," I Said,

Announcing Your Death Should Be Like Announcing That You Are A Lunar Moth: It Must Be Done Quietly Or It Will Not Be Believed.

Deciding Whether Or Not To Trust A Person Is Like Deciding Whether Or Not To Climb A Tree, Because You Might Get A Wonderful View From The Highest Branch, Or You Might Simply Get Covered In Sap, And For This Reason Many People Choose To Spend Their Time Alone And Indoors, Where It Is Harder To Get A Splinter.

The Violins Waltzed. The Cellos And Basses Provided Accompaniment. The Violas Mourned Their Fate, While The Concertmaster Showed Off. The Flutes Did Bird Imitations…repeatedly, And The Reed Instruments Had The Good Taste To Admire My Jacket. The Trumpets Held A Parade In Honor Of Our Great Nation, While The French Horns Waxed Nostalgic About Something Or Other. The Trombones Had Too Much To Drink. The Percussion Beat The Band, And The Tuba Stayed Home Playing Cards With His Landlady, The Harp, Taking Sips Of Warm Milk A Blue Little Cup. “but The Composer Is Still Dead.

If You Have Ever Slept In A Covered Casserole Dish On The Highest Peak Of A Mountain Range, Then You Know That It Is An Uncomfortable Place To Lay One's Head, Even If You Find A Dish Towel Inside It That Can Serve As A Blanket.

There Is No Easy Way To Train An Apprentice. My Two Tools Are Example And Nagging.