I Have Thousands Of Opinions

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.

Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed, Nearby. It Is In The Hall.

I Am In An Adolescence In Reverse, As Mysterious As The First, Except That This Time I Feel It As A Decay Of The Odds That I Might Live For A While, That I Can Sleep It Off.

True Stories, Autobiographical Stories, Like Some Novels, Begin Long Ago, Before The Acts In The Account, Before The Birth Of Some Of The People In The Tale.

Public Radio Is Alive And Kicking, It Always Has Been