We All Have Our Dreams. May We

She Looked, And A Scarlet Butterfly Flew Away From Her, Away Down The Length Of The Tower, And Then Another, Another, An Unraveling Scarf Of Butterflies Like Winged Blood.

What Is Any Of This To Us? Time Is Endless And Ours. Love And Death Are Only The Games We Play In It.

The Humble Were The Elect Of God. Did Not The Priests Teach So, In Their Gemmed, Kingly Robes, From Their Towering Pulpits?

No One More Cynical Than An Idealist.

Writers Tell Stories Better, Because They've Had More Practice, But Everyone Has A Book In Them. Yes, That Old Cliche.