Love Must Wait; It Must Break One’s

I Write Down Portions, Maybe Fragments, And Perhaps An Imperfect View Of What Im Hoping To Write. Out Of That, I Keep Trying To Find Exactly What I Want.

He Liked To Read With The Silence And The Golden Color Of The Whiskey As His Companions. He Liked Food, People, Talk, But Reading Was An Inexhaustible Pleasure. What The Joys Of Music Were To Others, Words On A Page Were To Him.

It's Just That It's Hard To Believe In Greatness.

Life Is Weather. Life Is Meals.

You Can Write About Other People And Their Ideas And Life Without Having Lived It, But Even Your Perception Of That Is Going To Be Colored By What You Know And What You Experience. And This Is Undeniable.