It’s Daunting To Find The Language So

Poems Give You The Lives Of Others And Then Circle In On Your Own Inner World.

Venice, The Most Touristy Place In The World, Is Still Just Completely Magic To Me.

Like Fanning Through A Deck Of Cards, My Mind Flashes On The Thousand Chances, Trivial To Profound, That Converged To Re-create This Place. Any Arbitrary Turning Along The Way And I Would Be Elsewhere; I Would Be Different. Where Did The Expression "a Place In The Sun" First Come From? My Rational Thought Process Cling Always To The Idea Of Free Will, Random Event; My Blood, However, Streams Easily Along A Current Of Fate.

I Was Born And Grew Up In Fitzgerald, Way Down In South Georgia. It Was A Mill Town And My Family Ran The Cotton Mill. My Grandfather Was Mayor Many Times And My Family Felt Deeply Rooted To That Spot.

One Of Those Flash Epiphanies Of Travel, The Realization That Worlds You'd Love Vibrantly Exist Outside Your Ignorance Of Them. The Vitality Of Many Lives You Know Nothing About. I Could Live In This Town, So How Is It That I've Never Been Here Before Today?