Memories And Magic Is What Christmas Is

And My Father Was A Comic. He Could Play Any Musical Instrument. He Loved To Perform. He Was A Wonderfully Comedic Character. He Had The Ability To Dance And Sing And Charm And Analyze Poetry.

I've Always Felt That Life Is A Novel, And Part Of It Is Written For You, And Part Of It Is Written By You. It's Up To You To Write The Ending, Ultimately.

On A Lazy Saturday Morning When You're Lying In Bed, Drifting In And Out Of Sleep, There Is A Space Where Fantasy And Reality Become One. Are You Awake, Or Are You Dreaming? You See People And Things; Some Are Familiar; Some Are Strange. You Talk, You Feel, But You Move Without Walking; You Fly Without Wings. Your Mind And Your Body Exist, But On Separate Planes. Time Stands Still. For Me, This Is The Feeling I Have When Ideas Come.

If I Was In Love With Someone, I Would Get Their Picture Out Of The School Yearbook And Do Portraits. If I Was Curious About Sex, I Would Draw Pictures Of It. There Were No Books For Me To Look At. Then I Would Go Find My Father's Matches To Burn The Paper.

You Do Not Have To Die To Save Their Lives.