Feeling Is Not Selective, I

The Small Seed Of Despair Cracks Open And Sends Experimental Tendrils Upward To The Fragile Skin Of Calm Holding Him Together.

I Notice When I'm On These Trips, I Read Like Mad. It's The Only Thing That Seems To Center Me, Bring Me Back To Remembering Who I Am. Or Forgetting Who I Am!

Haven't Lost Your Sense Of Humor After All But Your Sense Of Identity Is What Seems To Have Been Misplaced. No. Wrong. You Don't Lose What You Never Had.

It's Always Obvious To Me When Someone Is Looking At Me With An Idea Of Who I Am And Hoping That That's The Person I'm Going To Be. No Matter How Subtle It Is, It's There, And You Want To Give Them Who They Really Want. But It Ain't Me.

Writers Don't Write To Inform Other People, They Write To Find Out Something Themselves.