A Myth Is An Old Lie That

When I'm Sitting In The Church Alone, I Can Hear Singing Of The Old People. I Can Hear Their Singing And I Can Hear Their Praying, And Sometimes I Hum One Of Their Songs.

Don't Tell Me To Believe. Don't Tell Me To Believe In The Same God Or Laws That Men Believe In Who Commit These Murders. Don't Tell Me To Believe That God Can Bless This Country And That Men Are Judged By Their Peers. Who Among His Peers Judged Him? Was I There? Was The Minister There? Was Harry Williams There? Was Farrell Jarreau? Was My Aunt? Was Vivian? No, His Peers Did Not Judge Him, And I Will Not Believe.

"you Going Back," She Said. "you Ain't Going To Run Away From This, Grant."

The Six Golden Rules Of Writing: Read, Read, Read, And Write, Write, Write.

Words Mean Nothing. Action Is The Only Thing. Doing. That's The Only Thing.