The Hand You Hold The Longest Is

Books Are, At Their Heart, Dangerous. Yes, Dangerous. Because They Challenge Us: Our Prejudices, Our Blind Spots. They Open Us To New Ideas, New Ways Of Seeing. They Make Us Hurt In All The Right Ways. They Can Push Down The Barricades Of ‘them’ & Widen The Circle Of ‘us.

My Cholera's Acting Up Again.

Naughty John, Naughty John, Does His Work With His Apron On. Cuts Your Throat And Takes Your Bones, Sells 'em Off For A Coupla Stones.

I Stare At The Pile Of Discarded Remnants And Think Of My Mother. Did She Touch That Pillar There? Does Her Scent Still Linger In A Fragment Of Glass Or A Splinter Of Wood? A Terrible Emptiness Settles Into My Chest. No Matter How Much I Go About Living, There Are Always Small Reminders That Make The Loss Fresh Again.

Can We Really Conquer Chaos So Easily? If That Were So, I Should Be Able To Prune The Pandemonium Of My Own Soul Into Something Neat And Tidy Rather Than This Maze Of Wants And Needs And Misgivings That Has Me Forever Feeling As If I Cannot Fit Into The Landscape Of Things.