In The Last Stages Of A Final

We Rely Upon The Poets, The Philosophers, And The Playwrights To Articulate What Most Of Us Can Only Feel, In Joy Or Sorrow. They Illuminate The Thoughts For Which We Only Grope; They Give Us The Strength And Balm We Cannot Find In Ourselves. Whenever I Feel My Courage Wavering, I Rush To Them. They Give Me The Wisdom Of Acceptance, The Will And Resiliance To Push On.

When It Comes To Staying Tuned: If You Rest, You Rust.

Egocentrics Are Attracted To The Inept. It Gives Them One More Excuse For Patting Themselves On The Back.

Actors Work And Slave And It Is The Color Of Your Hair That Can Determine Your Fate In The End.

I Cry Out For Order And Find It Only In Art.