I Could Bear The Memory, But I

We Wait For The Tortoises To Come. We Wait For That Lady Who Walks Them. That’s How Art Works. It’s Never A Jackrabbit, Or A Racehorse. It’s The Tortoises That Hold All The Secrets. We’ve Got To Be Patient Enough To Wait For Them.

A Story Untold Could Be The One That Kills You.

My Mother Thought Of My Father As Half Barbarian And Half Blunt Instrument, And She Isolated Him From His Children.

When I Was 5 Years Old, My Mother Read Me 'gone With The Wind' At Night, Before I Went To Bed. I Remember Her Reading Almost All Year.

Music Could Ache And Hurt, That Beautiful Music Was A Place A Suffering Man Could Hide.