It’s true, but not entirely.

The sign is on the outside of my tiny writing cottage here in L.A. It’s actually only two by five inches (the sign, that is), and the garden is yet a dream. Full shelves of books inside. That counts, along with the dream.

But any one of us wanting to be fully alive must spring out of the library, the garden, the studio, and set our hair on fire.

Then wake up with the thought about roasting the hostile crows of the neighborhood, big as chickens.

Dream about leaving them out for the smaller birds, for lunch — a thanksgiving.

And then rejoice when you you see a grizzled, very old, tiny man, trousers patched with duct tape, and hear him say:

“It’s too bad I can’t sing.”