I Gave Them All The Truth And

No Shame In Saying That I Felt A Loneliness Drifting Through Me. Funny How It Was, Everyone Perched In Their Own Little World With The Deep Need To Talk, Each Person With Their Own Tale, Beginning In Some Strange Middle Point, Then Trying So Hard To Tell It All, To Have It All Make Sense, Logical And Final.

We Shape Ourselves By Our Imaginative Reach.

Let It Be. Silly Song, Really. You Let It Be, It Returns. There's The Truth. You Let It Be, It Drags You To The Ground. You Let It Be, It Crawls Up Your Walls.

The Job Of The Writer Is To Look At Where He Is Now And Make Some Sort Of Emotional Sense Of It, Not Only For That Moment But For Years To Come.

I Don't Know Of A Greater Privilege Than Being Allowed To Tell A Story, Or To Listen To A Story. They're The Only Thing We Have That Can Trump Life Itself.