February 1, 2001: Love starts with self

I shall write a piece of poetry—but please, look beyond the scenes. A painting of an old man, a tiny little ditty he proudly displays. In harmony then out—no one is around, why should he care? The painting belongs to him. He isn’t lonely—nor does he have friends. The walking old man seems happy just being who he is. Oh yes, the songs we create—most are locked up inside…released, only when left alone and walking—just like the old man whistling with ink inside this painting.