Joy and sorrow come from the same place. They are two currents of the same river. Follow the flow of either one and you grow your capacity for the other.
Since I saw you, flowers started growing between chambers of my heart. Petals were seen surfing on sound waves, resonating with the frequency of my soul.
Nothing to do, you know? Hemingway as dead as Bukowski andwho the fuck cares? Got to get on withthe simple act of living got to build the house just to burn it down newborn baby on the second floor,mother in the passenger seatas the car pulls away,but this is the sort of shit that is always ...
So many beautiful people come to the river, singing songs of gratitude in languages they learned from Native Americans, Eastern Indians, Peruvian shamans.