Sometimes you think you know things, know things very deeply, only to realize you don't know a damn thing.

What kind of world is this? And what do you do about it? What do you do when the worst thing that can happen actually happens?

The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?

The Color Of Extraordinary.

I always imagined music trapped inside my clarinet, not trapped inside of me. But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.