Remember That Every Son Had A Mother

The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

Hope Sleeps In Our Bones Like A Bear Waiting For Spring To Rise And Walk.

We Live In A Media Soup And Are Constantly Being Programmed Or Are Fighting That Programming. Thus Any Truthful Account Of A Life, Every Part Of A Life, Is About Society As Well As An Individual.

When She Kissed Him, He Melted Like A Lump Of Milk Chocolate.

We Can Only Know What We Can Truly Imagine. Finally What We See Comes From Ourselves.