There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. - Red Smith
* * *
Upon the hills of Georgia lies the haze of night...
Below, the Aragva foams... The sadness
That fills the void of days is, strangely, half delight,
'Tis both sweet pain and sweeter gladness.
Because you haunt my heart, it cannot be at rest,
And yet 'tis light and untormented
By morbid thoughts... It loves... It loves because it must,
Rejoicing in the love by fortune sent it.