On being misunderstood.

Even my closest and dearest friend. My Italian amore. Misunderstands me. Often enough. Everybody does. But that's all right. I was born to be misunderstood. Because we all speak different languages. It can take a long, long time to be understood. I started out. As a babbler. In 1935. And here I am. Eighty years later. Still babbling. But in a more sophisticated form. I love to babble. Maybe it's the only way that I know how to speak. To clarify my positions on the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. Yes, it's frustrating. To not be understood. Even in moments of extreme clarity. When I most understand my own words. --Jim Broede