What you see is so often hard to look beyond.
The still life cannot compete with the moving pictures we create
Even when imagined, especially when real.
We hold a part of all who have touched us.
Connections from within and without, our names on marquees
Never the beautiful, often the damned
We carry laughter, miracles, dissonance.
Frequently our territory is too tame and not enough.
We search for the whys and whens and wheretofores.
Mediocrity is the spectre,
With perplexing indifference, agonizing deflection, amusing acceptance.
Laced with experience, armed with knowledge
The pen does its job, washing away the bitter
The words taste like rum.
The Word Rummager 
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