Why is it that weeks and months and years go by so quickly, all in a blur, but moments last forever?

Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.

Cry your grief to God. Howl to the heavens. Tear your shirt. Your hair. Your flesh. Gouge out your eyes. Carve out your heart. And what will you get from Him? Only silence. Indifference. But merely stand looking at the playbills, sighing because your name is not on them, and the devil himself appears at your elbow full of sympathy and suggestions. And that's why I did it....Because God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.

I struggled for a long time to get anything published.

I listened as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.

Namaste. It was a Nepalese greeting. It meant: The light within me bows to the light within you.

There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.