It is utterly soothing to fly fish for trout. All other considerations or worries drift away and you couldn't keep them close if you wanted. Perhaps it's standing thigh deep in a river with the water passing at the exact but varying speed of life. You easily recognize this mortality and it dissipates into the landscape.

What cannot be said, will get wept.

That's my only defense against this world: to build a sentence out of it.

We set this house on fire forgetting that we live within.

Because most writers have totally unrealistic concepts of how publishing works.

I thought, frankly, that it would be more pleasant to write a memoir than it was.

In a life properly lived, you're a river.