And You Treat Me Wonderfully And Keep

The Echoes Of Beauty You've Seen Transpire, Resound Through Dying Coals Of A Campfire.

You Write A Book Like That You're Fond Of Over The Years, Then You See That Happen To It, It's Like Pissing In Your Father's Beer.

The One Who Is Doing His Work And Getting Satisfaction From It Is Not The One The Poverty Bothers.

No Tears In The Writer, No Tears In The Reader.

There Are So Many Good Ones To Paint And If You Paint As Well As You Really Can And Keep Out Of All Other Things And Do That, It Is The True Thing.