I Write To Make Sense Of My

The Short Story Is The Literature Of The Nomad.

Avoid Kneeling In Unheated Stone Churches. Ecclesiastical Dampness Causes Prematurely Grey Hair.

Alice Malloy Had Dark, Stringy Hair, And Even Her Husband, Who Loved Her More Than He Knew, Was Sometimes Reminded By Her Lean Face Of A Tenement Doorway On A Rainy Day, For Her Countenance Was Long, Vacant, And Weakly Lighted, A Passage For The Gentle Transports And Miseries Of The Poor.

I Was Here On Earth Because I Chose To Be.

The Constants That I Look For Are A Love Of Light And A Determination To Trace Some Moral Chain Of Being.