I do think that there's art that is tortured, but I prefer art that has the joy in it.

I'm looking over rooftops, and I'm hoping it ain't true, that the same God looks out for them, looks out for me and you.

Mud and water and the stumps of trees. In every direction that was all there was. Bodies fell, but the trees died standing up.

The real desk isn't one with four legs and a filing cabinet. It's the space of time that you stake out every day and the will with which you defend it.

Every heart is a package tangled up in knots someone else tied.

I do think that there's art that is tortured, but I prefer art that has the joy in it.

Its been a long time coming but now the snow is gone