Then how come He never lives here

I love words. I love music. I love women. Doesn't mean I know fuck all about what to do with any of those things.

I write this shitty little blog and the occasional short story while working on a screenplay (because I love being a cliche). I find a musician I love and listen to her so damn much even my dogs look at me like, her again? Somehow I did win big in the women department. Still not sure how the fuck I pulled that one off. I must have swag or some such shit.

If you keep using words like 'swag' you won't have me very much longer.

Sorry, babe.

Some of my favorite words in the world and a light dusting of sand.

The words in the above image are from the brother of a friend. I may have met him, but if I did it was in passing and, forgive me friend, but I don't really remember.

I went to his funeral to support my friend and was handed the above words. I've kept them close as I have moved from place to place, usually in a place I can see them; on a mantle, in my mancave, on a shelf in a library. I even took them with me to Bosnia where they were kept right alongside a picture of a shirtless Jennifer Aniston (which I also still have). I have a habit of taking them from time to time from whatever place I have put them and reading them. Slowly. Deliberately. I cannot tell you why these particular words in this particular order mean so much to me. I only know that they do.

Yesterday they were sharing a shelf with a signed David Thorne book. I decided to give them a permanent home last night. I had a space under the glass top of my desk just to the right of my keyboard that was calling for something cool. I think my desk is finally whole.