The World Is Made By The People

People Give Themselves To You, In Their Talking, And In Other Ways, If You Are Quiet And Patient And Let Them, And Not In Such A Damned Rush To Give Yourself To Them You Go Bat-blind And Deaf.

Since No One Is Perfect, It Follows That All Great Deeds Have Been Accomplished Out Of Imperfection. Yet They Were Accomplished, Somehow, All The Same.

I'd Storm Heaven For You, If I Knew Where It Was.

His Outflung Hands Traced Over The Threads Of His Rug, Passed Loop By Loop Through Some Patient Woman's Hands. Or Maybe She Hadn't Been Patient. Maybe She'd Been Tired, Or Irritated, Or Distracted, Or Hungry, Or Angry. Maybe She Had Been Dying. But Her Hands Had Kept Moving, All The Same.

It Was Never What I Wanted To Buy That Held My Heart's Hope. It Was What I Wanted To Be.