Virgil Flowers fishes in the St. Croix where I fish for muskies near my house.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?

I'm not saying that photographers are dumber than other people, but they are the folks who walk around with brilliant white lights in nighttime riots.

I once paddled a canoe the length of the Mississippi River all the way from Itasca to New Orleans.

Things fall apart and happen out of stupidity and carelessness.

Why bother to go through life if you can't do interesting shit?