The Writer's Job Is To Tell The

Never Delay Kissing A Pretty Girl Or Opening A Bottle Of Whiskey

Up The Road, In His Shack, The Old Man Was Sleeping Again. He Was Still Sleeping On His Face And The Boy Was Sitting By Him Watching Him. The Old Man Was Dreaming About The Lions.

For We Have Thought The Longer Thoughts And Gone The Shorter Way. And We Have Danced To Devils' Tunes, Shivering Home To Pray; To Serve One Master In The Night, Another In The Day.

I Am Trying To Make, Before I Get Through, A Picture Of The Whole World--or As Much Of It As I Have Seen. Boiling It Down Always, Rather Than Spreading It Out Too Thin. (on Writing.)

And You Treat Me Wonderfully And Keep All Your Promises.