Why Do I Write? The Truth, The

I Don't Want To Write Without A Sense Of Drama, Without Passion, Or Without Both Eyes Open To The World Around Me.

Contempt Mates Well With Pity.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.

A Myth Is More Powerful - And More Lasting - Than Reality.

That's One Of The Privileges Of Old Age - You Can Give Plenty Of Advice 'cause Most Folks Think That's All You Got Left Anyway.