Writers Are Also Sort Of Like Vultures,

There’s A Moment Of Profound Sadness That Can Be Dispelled Only By Summoning My Anger.

In Every End, There Is Also A Beginning.

Theta Crashed Next To Them On The Thick Zebra-skin Rug. “i’m Embalmed.” “potted And Splificated?” “ossified To The Gills. Time For Night-night.

A Gentle Breeze Catches In The Branches Then And I Hear It, Soft And Low, A Murmured Prayer--gem-ma, Gem-ma--and Then The Leaves Bend Down And Trail Delicate Fingers Across My Cold Cheeks.

May I Suggest That You All Read? And Often. Believe Me, It's Nice To Have Something To Talk About Other Than The Weather And The Queen's Health. Your Mind Is Not A Cage. It's A Garden. And It Requires Cultivating.