Anyway, There's Something Wrong With Everybody And

I Wish I Knew How To Quit You.

Walking On The Land Or Digging In The Fine Soil I Am Intensely Aware That Time Quivers Slightly, Changes Occurring In Imperceptible And Minute Ways, Accumulating So Subtly That They Seem Not To Exist. Yet The Tiny Shifts In Everything--cell Replication, The Rain Of Dust Motes, Lengthening Hair, Wind-pushed Rocks--press Inexorably On And On.

A Spinning Coin, Still Balanced On Its Rim, May Fall In Either Direction.

We're All Strange Inside. We Learn How To Disguise Our Differences As We Grow Up.

No Wonder, He Thought, That The Panhandle People Were A Godly Lot, For They Lived In Sudden, Violent Atmospheres. Weather Kept Them Humble.