In wickedness of pride is lost the light to understand how little grace is earned and how much given.

There are times when you get hit upon, Try hard but you cannot give. Other times you'd gladly part, With what you need to live

Counting stars by candlelight all are dim but one is bright; the spiral light of Venus rising first and shining best, from the northwest corner of a brand-new crescent moon crickets and cicadas sing a rare and different tune.

Everything you gather is just one that you can lose.

Let there be songs to fill the air.

But I would rather be with you, somewhere in San Francisco on a back porch in July, just looking up to Heaven, at this crescent in the sky

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.