Accident Is As Much A Part Of

The Voodoo Priest And All His Powders Were As Nothing Compared To Espresso, Cappuccino, And Mocha, Which Are Stronger Than All The Religions Of The World Combined, And Perhaps Stronger Than The Human Soul Itself.

From Long Familiarity, We Know What Honor Is. It Is What Enables The Individual To Do Right In The Face Of Complacency And Cowardice. It Is What Enables The Soldier To Die Alone, The Political Prisoner To Resist, The Singer To Sing Her Song, Hardly Appreciated, On A Side Street.

Perhaps Passing Through The Gates Of Death Is Like Passing Quietly Through The Gate In A Pasture Fence. On The Other Side, You Keep Walking, Without The Need To Look Back. No Shock, No Drama, Just The Lifting Of A Plank Or Two In A Simple Wooden Gate In A Clearing. Neither Pain, Nor Floods Of Light, Nor Great Voices, But Just The Silent Crossing Of A Meadow.

La Guerre, La Guerre, Everything La Guerre. That's How I Grew Up. So For Me, It's Real. It's Not Something In The Past.

He Moved Like A Dancer, Which Is Not Surprising; A Horse Is A Beautiful Animal, But It Is Perhaps Most Remarkable Because It Moves As If It Always Hears Music.