The Writer Must Hew The Phantom Rock.

She Wished There Was Some Place Where She Could Go To Hum It Out Loud. Some Kind Of Music Was Too Private To Sing In A House Cram Fall Of People. It Was Funny, Too, How Lonesome A Person Could Be In A Crowded House.

I'm Not Explaining This Right. What Happened Was This. There Were These Beautiful Feelings And Loose Little Pleasures Inside Me. And This Woman Was Something Like An Assembly Line For My Soul. I Run These Little Pieces Of Myself Through Her And I Come Out Complete. Now Do You Follow Me?

But No Value Has Been Put On Human Life; It Is Given To Us Free And Taken Without Being Paid For. What Is It Worth? If You Look Around, At Times The Value May Seem To Be Little Or Nothing At All. Often After You Have Sweated And Tried And Things Are Not Better For You, There Comes A Feeling Deep Down In The Soul That You Are Not Worth Much.

Nothing Is So Musical As The Sound Of Pouring Bourbon For The First Drink On A Sunday Morning. Not Bach Or Schubert Or Any Of Those Masters.

The Music Left Only This Bad Hurt In Her, And A Blankness. She Could Not Remember Any Of The Symphony, Not Even The Last Few Notes. She Tried To Remember, But No Sound At All Came To Her. Now That It Was Over There Was Only Her Heart Like A Rabbit And This Terrible Hurt.