No Wonder, He Thought, That The Panhandle

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

If A Piece Of Knotted String Can Unleash The Wind, And If A Drowned Man Can Awaken, Then I Believe A Broken Man Can Heal.

We're All Strange Inside. We Learn How To Disguise Our Differences As We Grow Up.

Change Itself Is What Fascinates Me. I Am Drawn, As A Moth To The Flame, By Edge Situations, By Situations Of Metamorphosis.

What We Fear We Often Rage Against.