Knowing Heaven Is What Heals Us On

When He Went Blundering Back To God, His Songs Half Written, His Work Half Done, Who Knows What Paths His Bruised Feet Trod, What Hills Of Peace Or Pain He Won? I Hope God Smiled And Took His Hand, And Said, "poor Truant, Passionate Fool! Life’s Book Is Hard To Understand: Why Couldst Thou Not Remain At School?" A Poem By Charles Hanson Towne

To Know You're Going To Die, And To Be Prepared For It At Any Time. That's Better. That Way You Can Actually Be More Involved In Your Life While You're Living.

I Always Look For A "rhythm" In My Writing. A Cadence To The Sentences. Sometimes I Think Of Pieces I Write In A Song Writing Infrastructure - I.e., A Verse, A Chorus That I Return To, A Bridge That's Something Differenct, A Chorus That I Return To.

I Don't Know What It Is About Food Your Mother Makes For You, Especially When It's Something That Anyone Can Make - Pancakes, Meat Loaf, Tuna Salad - But It Carries A Certain Taste Of Memory.

I Hope You Never Hear Those Words. Your Mom. She Died. They Are Different Than Other Words. They Are Too Big To Fit In Your Ears. They Belong To Some Strange, Heavy, Powerful Language That Pounds Away At The Side Of Your Head, A Wrecking Ball Coming At You Again And Again, Until Finally, The Words Crack A Hole Large Enough To Fit Inside Your Brain. And In So Doing, They Split You Apart.