From too much love of living From hope and fear set free We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever That dead men rise up never That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

As a child our dreams got scattered all about and all our future prospects got scattered to so many places and we spend our lives trying to find the little pieces that make up our lives and make up the dreams that we had as a child that got blown away in the windstorm.

In the business world the rearview mirror is always clearer than the windshield.

Should you shield the canyons from the windstorms you would never see the true beauty of their carvings.

Rumors sound of galleries asking artists for upsized art and more of it. I've heard of photographers asked to print larger to increase the wall power and salability of their work. Everything winds up set to maximum in order to feed the beast.