And me, standing under the splintered night, catching fractured glimpses into the black behind the black, hearing the prayers of stars, the angry whispers of the dark summer night.Its voice cracks,on your name.My eyes close,on your name.

If you stand right at the edge of the night sky, some place where one o__lock leaves to meet two, the breeze will carry your words up to the stars. And they__l swallow your secrets until its time to hand them over to the truths in the sky- the ones that draw maps in the black. They carve their answers into the backs of my hands, the grooves of the words running deep in my palms.

His calm and gentle tone was like an anchor in a ferocious sea, keeping me from drifting into a current of heartache.

His lines had been honed over centuries, passed down through generations, for poor people needed certain lines; the script was always the same, and they had no option but to beg for mercy.

You'd be surprised how difficult it is to ask alms of a stranger when you've never done it before, what a psychological barrier separates the honest man from the panhandler. ("Dusk To Dawn")

It takes money to make money, even begging. Humans are herd animals. If a stranger__ bleeding to death beside the road, most people won__ stop to offer a Band-Aid. But get the ball rolling with a couple Good Samaritans, and before you know it you__e got more eager philanthropists than you know what to do with.