Don't be in temper, to leave so quickly, that I may be dying. But all too soon, the leaves and debris will gather elsewhere.

They have their opinions, but we have the answers.

The paint is drying, and time is dying. The pain is crying, lying on my back, trying to get back the time, to brushstrokes too fast, wet went dry and love went dull; now I live in a portrait I never painted.

A quick temper will make a fool of you soon enough.

Life is like a lit cigarette. The past is ashes, the present is burning, and the future is up in smoke. Fast as a breath; inhale exhale.

I wonder, with all the flowers in the garden, how many of them ever think of hanging themselves with the garden hose, if ever they can.