writers

The only time I wish I had a couch is when I'm reading a book at the desk. It is not as bad as the bed but still... 

Incidentally, it was the bathroom where I had one of those rare meetings with a soulmate in writing: 

 

Writers...I think...live on that fine line between insanity and genius...Either scaling the mountains...or skirting the valleys...Riding that lonely train of truth...with just enough of the player in us...to continue to hope...for the species...Writers are...perhaps...congenial hypocrites...I don't think preachers...priests...rabbis...and ayatollahs are hypocritical...because they have tubular vision...are indeed...myopic...They know the asnwer...before you ask the question...But the writer...the painter...the sculptor...the creator...those who work...with both the mind...and the heart of mankind...have no reason...to be hopeful...We have...in fact...no right to write the happy ending...or the love poem...no reason...to sculp David...or paint...like Charles White...We who have seen...all sides of the coin...the front...the back...and the ribbed edge...know what the ending...will surely be...Yet we speak...to and of...courage...love...hope...something better...in mankind...When we are perfectly honest...with ourselves...we cannot justify...our faith...Yet faith we do have...and continue to share.

Those Who Ride The Night Winds  by Nikki Giovanni