I Don't Know How To Make The

When I Stop Doing The Things That Make Me Unhappy, I Will Experience The Happiness That Is That Natural State Of Being. See, I Don't Think We Were Created With Some Pain And Misery And Whatever. I Think We Were Created By Whatever This Thing Is, When It Extended Itself, And, Here We Are. But I Pile On So Many Misconceptions That I End Up Uncomfortable In My Own Skin.

My Writing Is Inspired By Just About Everything, Yet I Am Unaware Of So Much Of The Process.

No Matter How Beautiful The Outside May Be, The Inside Still Has Feelings And Needs That Just Words Don't Fulfill.

I Don't Know That I Could Really Define Love. I Can't . . . Again, It's Like Trying To Define What This Creative Force Is. It's Beyond My Ability To Really Define. If I Can Define It, Then It's Not It. We're Right Back To That Thing Again.

I Suspect There Will Never Be A Requiem For A Dream, Simply Because It Will Destroy Us Before We Have The Opportunity To Mourn It's Passing.