A Star Dies In Heaven

Writers Are Voracious Readers. Once I Unlocked The Mystery Of The Alphabet That Led To Words, A Multitude Of Words Connecting Me To The World, There Was No Stopping Me. Everything Was Fair Game, From Louisa May Alcott To My Older Cousin's True Romance Magazines, From Lewis Carroll To The Backs Of Cereal Boxes. All Of This Fed Me, But It Took Certain Books To Make Me Grow. I Don't Want To Work Without A Sense Of Drama, Without Passion, Or Without Both Eyes Open To The World Around Me.

I Don't Want To Write Without A Sense Of Drama, Without Passion, Or Without Both Eyes Open To The World Around Me.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.

They All Trying To Say Something With Music That You Can't Say With Plain Talk. There Ain't Really No Words For Love Or Pain. And The Way I See It, Only Fools Go Around Trying To Talk Their Love Or Talk Their Pain. So The Smart People Make Music And You Can Kinda Hear About It Without Them Saying Anything.

Old As She Was, She Still Missed Her Daddy Sometimes.