The days are stacked against what we think we are.

I can maintain my sense of the sacredness of existence only by understanding my own limitations and losing my self-importance.

As an English major I was familiar with the stories of dozens of writers trying to get their work done among the multifarious diversions of the world and the hurdles of their own vices. A professor had said that what saved writers is that they, like politicians, had the illusion of destiny that allowed them to overcome obstacles no matter how nominal their work.

I'm not rational enough to be a good journalist.

Michigan is two radically different places - the North and the South which makes for good drama and contrast.

Strangely, when I totally emerged from this slump I couldn't comprehend how I had almost drowned it it.

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.