The twisted circumstances under which we live is grist for the writing mill, the loving, hating and discovering, finding new handles for old pitchers . . .

And realizing there is no such thing as the Black experience. Time and events allow for change on both sides.

Like snowflakes, the human pattern is never cast twice. We are uncommonly and marvelously intricate in thought and action, our problems are most complex and, too often, silently borne.

The Black writer explains pain to those who inflict it.

I was so mad you could have boiled a pot of water on my head.

Who wants to live with one foot in hell just for the sake of nostalgia Our time is forever now.

Some truth has no nourishment in it.