writing is a labor of love and also an act of defiance, a way to light a candle in a gale wind.
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.
It's a poor kind of man that won't fight for his own freedom.
Some truth has no nourishment in it.
I was so mad you could have boiled a pot of water on my head.
Life is just a short walk from the cradle to the grave - and it sure behooves us to be kind to one another along the way.