The crocodile doesn't harm the bird that cleans his teeth for him. He eats the others but not that one.

It is a paradox in the contemporary world that in our desire for peace we must willingly give ourselves to struggle.

Death is dancing me ragged.

A spoken story is larger than one unheard, unsaid. In nearly all creation accounts, words or songs are how the world was created, the animals sung into existence.

There is a place where the human enters dream and myth, and becomes a part of it, or maybe it is the other way around when the story grows from the body and spirit of humankind. In any case, we are a story, each of us, a bundle of stories, some as false as phantom islands but believed in nevertheless. Some might be true.

The crocodile doesn't harm the bird that cleans his teeth for him. He eats the others but not that one.

We make art out of our loss.