The Gospel of Eliphaz gets fat on American dreams in American hearts dying atop heaps of rotten spoil won by locking virtues up like safe-kept art. As if the perfect reward of true faith is a groomed lawn behind a picket fence, a clean house whiter than the palest wraith, and new cars forbidden to endure dents. Yet more subtle still, this 'Gospel' evolves into any form our dreamlust chooses, creating problems for problems to solve, snaring souls by multiplying muses. First last, last first. On earth as in heaven. Low, not high, abides the bread unleavened.

— Sonnet 3, The Gospel of Eliphaz

“Lord, what a strange world in which a man cannot remain unique even by taking the trouble to go mad!”

— G.K. Chesterton, The Napolean of Notting Hill

I think that sonnet might hold some clues as to my mood for most of April. Yet I am optimistic today. The more I think and strive, the more I feel that joy is a discipline. And truly, the World is not going to make it easy except for the fortunate few blown upwards by the top of the wheel, to rejoice. Here's to trying, and here's to writing.