Sometimes I Hate You," She Said.

Where Some God Pissed A Rain Of Reason To Make Things Grow Only To Die.

He Asked, "what Makes A Man A Writer?" "well," I Said, "it's Simple. You Either Get It Down On Paper, Or Jump Off A Bridge.

Magic Persists Without Us No Matter What We May Do To Try To Spoil It

I Wish To Weep But Sorrow Is Stupid. I Wish To Believe But Belief Is A Graveyard.

You Are On The Freeway Threading Through Traffic Now, Moving Both Towards Something And Towards Nothing At All As You Punch The Radio On And Get Mozart, Which Is Something, And You Will Somehow Get Through The Slow Days And The Busy Days And The Dull Days And The Hateful Days And The Rare Days, All Both So Delightful And So Disappointing Because We Are All So Alike And So Different.