More Than Any Other Beauty (though It

In The Novel Or The Journal You Get The Journey. In A Poem You Get The Arrival.

It Is Clear That We Do Not Exactly Choose Our Poems; Our Poems Choose Us.

At Any Moment Solitude May Put On The Face Of Loneliness.

A Body Without Bones Would Be A Limp Impossible Mess, So A Day Without Steady Routine Would Be Disruptive And Chaotic.

I Can Understand People Simply Fleeing The Mountainous Effort Christmas Has Become... But There Are Always A Few Saving Graces And Finally They Make Up For All The Bother And Distress.