I have to wonder, if some books aren't written out of some form of a broken heart. Those words are of course tainted, as something hypocritical, but you know what I mean. Emily wrote her poems. Kerouac wrote his 'sad book.' Most critics would throw a significant number of others into that group, Twain, etc.

But maybe there is some bit of good news in all that, that a pot is boiled down to something we might call a primitive basic scientific understanding, a comforting expansive thought like those of the Buddha. Those thoughts, if you will, raise the level of dialogue above the same stale old issues kicking around in the news everyday, the mindset behind pollution, unkind deeds, excesses, etc.

Ahh, ladies and gentlemen, what can you do, what can you do? Take your 5-HTP pill, maybe go for a half hour walk, brood a bit, get to work (once there it won't be so bad), hope for the best, get home in one piece, live to battle another day. Good deeds, that's what it's all about, good deeds.



Giotto had the mind
to paint that wedding scene,
populating it with real life
just like you'd find.
Every day and ordinary.