At the top of the cycle you write policies for everybody, no matter how bad, and at the bottom you cancel everybody, no matter how good. It's a manic-depressive cycle.

Perhaps people don't come into their true maturity until a parent dies.

Inspiration, move me brightly, light the song with sense and color, hold away despair

The storyteller makes no choice, soon you will not hear his voice, his job is to shed light, and not to master

Every song falls short of the glory of what a song could be. That's why the urge is there to start again and yet again. Often it's the fault of rhyme. I've discovered a hundred times that there just aren't enough rhymes to say what I wanted to say, so I said something else instead. Sometimes it was a better thing, but the thing I meant to say went unsaid. So there's an opening for another song.

Let there be songs to fill the air.

But never give your love, my friend, Unto a foolish heart