There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by.
One of the few things I know about writing is this: Spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book, give it, give it all, give it now.
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and with that one, is what we are doing.
Experiencing the present purely is being empty and hollow; you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.
Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.
Nothing on earth is more gladdening than knowing we must roll up our sleeves and move back the boundaries of the humanly possible once more.
We still and always want waking.
Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.
I can't dance anymore. Total knee replacements. I can't do anything anymore.
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