When I Was Done Traveling,

When People Read His Books They Have An Uncontrollable Desire To Hang The Author In The Town Square. I Can’t Think Of A Higher Honor For A Writer.

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.

Even On The Poorest Streets People Could Be Heard Laughing. Some Of These Streets Were Completely Dark, Like Black Holes, And The Laughter That Came From Who Knows Where Was The Only Sign, The Only Beacon That Kept Residents And Strangers From Getting Lost.

Nothing Good Ever Comes Of Love. What Comes Of Love Is Always Something Better

We're Artists Too, But We Do A Good Job Hiding It, Don't We?