It's Just That No One Wants To

I Have Something To Tell You." "how, You Have Something To Tell Me?" "you Have Understood Me Exactly." "well, I Am Listening." "listening? Then, You Wish Me To Tell You?" "yes, That Is It. I Am Listening, And Therefore I Wish You To Tell Me." "shall I Tell You Now?" "no.

The Tools Are Real. The Viewer Is Real, You, The Artist, Is Real And A Part Of Everything You Paint. You Connect Yourself To The Viewer By Sharing Something That Is Inside Of You That Connects With Something Inside Of Him. All You Have As Your Guide Is That You Know What Moves You. All You Have To Do It With Is A Brush, Some Chemical And Canvas, And Technique.

There Was A Sergeant At A Desk. I Knew He Was A Sergeant Because I Recognized The Marks On His Uniform, And I Knew It Was A Desk Because It's Always A Desk. There's Always Someone At A Desk, Except When It's A Table That Functions As A Desk. You Sit Behind A Desk, And Everyone Knows You're Supposed To Be There, And That You're Doing Something That Involves Your Brain. It's An Odd, Special Kind Of Importance. I Think Everyone Should Get A Desk; You Can Sit Behind It When You Feel Like You Don't Matter.

There Is No Excuse For Bad Manners, Except Fast Reflexes.

Why Do You Work So Hard To Make Yourself Disliked? I Should Think You'd Find It Happens Enough On Its Own Without Putting Yourself To Any Extra Trouble.