In art school, Phil Hansen developed an unruly tremor in his hand that kept him from creating the pointillist drawings he loved. Hansen was devastated, floating without a sense of purpose. Until a neurologist made a simple suggestion: embrace this limitation ... and transcend it.
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They die--the dead return not--Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye--
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls--they all are gone--
Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain--
These tombs--alone remain.
Misery, my sweetest friend--oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be c...