There Are Few Joys To Compare With

I Envy The Music Lovers Hear. I See Them Walking Hand In Hand, Standing Close To Each Other In A Queue At A Theater Or Subway Station, Heads Touching While They Sit On A Park Bench, And I Ache To Hear The Song That Plays Between Them: The Stirring Chords Of Romance's First Bloom, The Stately Airs That Whisper Between A Couple Long In Love. You Can See It In The Way They Look At Each Other... You Can Almost Hear It. Almost, But Not Quite, Because The Music Belongs To Them And All You Can Have Of It Is A Vague Echo That Rises Up From The Bittersweet Murmur And Shuffle Of Your Own Memories.

It's All A Matter Of Paying Attention, Being Awake In The Present Moment, And Not Expecting A Huge Payoff. The Magic In This World Seems To Work In Whispers And Small Kindnesses.

You've Got To Spread Out As Far As You Can, Cut Down A Whole Forest, Irrigate A Whole Desert, Just To Make Sure That You Won't Accidentally Stumble Upon A Place That's Still In Its Natural State.

You Know How We'd Get Along Better? If Everybody'd Just Remember How We're All Related. White, Black, Asian, Skin. No Difference. All The Bloodlines Go Back To That One Old Mama In Africa.

The Thing To Remember When You're Writing Is, It's Not Whether Or Not What You Put On Paper Is True. It's Whether It Wakes A Truth In Your Reader.