And I Can't Die Easy Thinking Maybe

I Am Not Tragically Colored. There Is No Great Sorrow Dammed Up In My Soul, Nor Lurking Behind My Eyes. I Do Not Mind At All. I Do Not Belong To The Sobbing School Of Negrohood Who Hold That Nature Somehow Has Given Them A Lowdown Dirty Deal And Whose Feelings Are All Hurt About It. Even In The Helter-skelter Skirmish That Is My Life, I Have Seen That The World Is To The Strong Regardless Of A Little Pigmentation More Or Less. No, I Do Not Weep At The World—i Am Too Busy Sharpening My Oyster Knife.

Research Is Formalized Curiosity. It Is Poking And Prying With A Purpose. It Is A Seeking That He Who Wishes May Know The Cosmic Secrets Of The World And They That Dwell Therein.

Perhaps, It Is Just As Well To Be Rash And Foolish For A While. If Writers Were Too Wise, Perhaps No Books Would Be Written At All. It Might Be Better To Ask Yourself "why?" Afterwards Than Before. Anyway, The Force From Somewhere In Space Which Commands You To Write In The First Place, Gives You No Choice. You Take Up The Pen When You Are Told, And Write What Is Commanded. There Is No Agony Like Bearing An Untold Story Inside You.

I Have Known The Joy And Pain Of Friendship. I Have Served And Been Served. I Have Made Some Good Enemies For Which I Am Not A Bit Sorry. I Have Loved Unselfishly, And I Have Fondled Hatred With The Red-hot Tongs Of Hell. That's Living.

But As De Old Folk Always Say, Ah'm Born But Ah Ain't Dead. No Tellin' Whut Ah'm Liable Tuh Do Yet.