Wilbur didn't want food, he wanted love.
There is no trick to it. If you like to write and want to write, you write, no matter where you are or what else you are doing or whether anyone pays any heed.
His words span rivers and mountains, but his thoughts are still only six inches long.
Before the seed there comes the thought of bloom.
I am still encouraged to go on. I wouldn't know where else to go.
Loneliness is a strange gift.