Attitude Is A Paintbrush. It Colors Everything!

Nobody Grasped You By The Shoulder While There Was Still Time. Now The Clay Of Which You Were Shaped Has Dried And Hardened, And Naught In You Will Ever Awaken The Sleeping Musician, The Poet, The Asronomer That Possibly Inhabited You In The Beginning.

Cries Of Despair, Misery, Sobbing Grief Are A Kind Of Wealth.

You See, One Loves The Sunset When One Is So Sad.

Straight Ahead You Can't Go Very Far.

The Tree Is More Than First A Seed, Then A Stem, Then A Living Trunk, And Then Dead Timber. The Tree Is A Slow, Enduring Force Straining To Win The Sky.