For Beatrice- When We Were

One Wanders Through Life As If Wandering Through A Field In The Dark Of Night, Wearing A Blindfold And Very Heavy Shoes, With A Poisonous Toad Waiting Patiently Beneath A Clump Of Weeds, Knowing Full Well That Eventually You Will Step On Him.

The Burning Of A Book Is A Sad, Sad Sight, For Even Though A Book Is Nothing But Ink And Paper, It Feels As If The Ideas Contained In The Book Are Disappearing As The Pages Turn To Ashes And The Cover And Binding--which Is The Term For The Stitching And Glue That Holds The Pages Together--blacken And Curl As The Flames Do Their Wicked Work. When Someone Is Burning A Book, They Are Showing Utter Contempt For All Of The Thinking That Produced Its Ideas, All Of The Labor That Went Into Its Words And Sentences, And All Of The Trouble That Befell The Author . . .

I Opened My Mouth And Kissed You Then, The First Time All Night, Attacked You And Surrendered Completely, And Let’s Get Out Of Here. I’m Ready, I’m Finished, Let’s Not Break Up, No, No. Take Me Home, My Boyfriend, My Love.

Sometimes Words Are Not Enough.

Miracles Are Like Pimples, Because Once You Start Looking For Them You Find More Than You Ever Dreamed You'd See.