With Imagination, You Can Put

I'm Kind Of A Distractible Guy.

We're All Hoping That Trump Doesn't Get Our World On His Terms Because There Won't Be Anything Of It Left. Trump Is A True Psychopath, A Psychopath In The Way That Tragedy Becomes Tragedy.

Life's Passed Along To Us Empty. We Have To Make Up The Happiness Part.

Love Isn’t A Thing, After All, But An Endless Series Of Single Acts.

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.