The Dream Might Have Been More Than

Later, Going Home, I Realized They Didn't Look Alike At All; What Made Them Seem To Was The Aftermath Of Stress And The Lingering Of Sorrow. It's Strange How Pain Marks Our Faces, And Makes Us Look Like Family.

I Get Inspiration, A Lot Of Times, From Very Commonplace Things That Just Strike A Chord And Develop Themselves In The Subconscious.

You Can See The Goldenrod, That Most Tenacious And Pernicious And Beauteous Of All New England Flora, Bowing Away From The Wind Like A Great And Silent Congregation.

Do You Drink?" "of Course,i Just Said I Was A Writer.

Fiction Is The Truth Inside The Lie.