Pain Is Not Love. Love Flowers; Love

Birth Is The Start Of Loneliness And Loneliness The Start Of Poetry.

All My Forebears Worked For A Living. My Grandfather Painted Portraits. My Mother Too. My Aunt Painted Seascapes.

I Stand In The Mist And Cry, Thinking Of Myself Standing In The Mist And Crying, And Wondering If I Will Ever Be Able To Use This Experience In A Book.

You Must Find The Right Voice (or Voices) For The Timbre That Can Convince A Reader To Give Himself Up To You.

And The Trouble Is, If You Don't Risk Anything, You Risk Even More.