It was an odd type of spiritual-gravitational pull that yanked me out of bed and onto my front porch in my pjs too look at the snow dust and cloudy sky. Oh, how I was disappointed that I couldn't see the stars.
Van Gogh painted 'Starry Starry Night' from an asylum window. He was a captive to a lost mind with a body full of talent; ironic that the stars were his release.
Tonight, I swear my mind was purfled with God's knowledge, and I'm absolutely abash that I can't quite access it. I could go mad. Victor Hugo said, "Silence creates men of genius, or idiots." What is it to stand at the door and knock, left open only to silence? 
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