These Were People... Who Built

I Began Reading Harper Lee's Novel In The Skimpy Shade Of A Pine Outside My Grandmother's House, Fat Beagles Pressing Against Me, Begging For Attention, Ignored. At Dark, I Kept Reading, First On The Couch, A Bologna Sandwich In One Hand, Then In My Bed, By The Light Of A 60-watt Bulb Hanging From The Ceiling On An Orange Drop Cord. When My Mother Came In From Her Job As A Maid And Unplugged My Chandelier, I Replayed The Story In My Head Until It Was Crowded Out By Dreams. I Woke The Next Morning, Smelling Biscuits, And Reached For The Book Again.

It Wasn't That I Had Gotten It Right . . . But That I Had Gotten True.

Don’t Worry About What People Think, Because Once It’s All Over The People Who Love You Will Make You What They Want You To Be, And The People Who Don’t Love You Will, Too.

People Who Think There Is Something Pedestrian About Journalism Are Just Ignorant.

You Do Not Hate The Time You Waste; It Evokes A Much More Passive Emotion Than That. You Only Wish You Had It Back, Like A Quarter In An Unlucky Slot Machine.