Wherever It Is You Make

You Lay Your Hand Against His Skin And Just Rib His Back. Blow Into His Ear. Press That Baby Up Against Your Own Skin And Walk Outside With Him, Where The Night Air Will Sourround Him, And Moonlight Fall On His Face. Whistle, Maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray. (how To Calm A Crying Baby)

She Felt Everything Too Deeply, It Was Like The World Was Too Much For Her.

I Believe Every One Of Us Possesses A Fundamental Right To Tell Our Own Story.

Nothing Like Being Visible, Publishing One's Work, And Speaking Openly About One's Life, To Disabuse The World Of The Illusion Of One's Perfection And Purity.

Wherever It Is You Make Your Home, There Is Always This Other Place, This Other Person, Calling To You. Come To Me. Come Back.