I Must Fight With My Weapons. Not

Whole Sight; Or All The Rest Is Desolation.

The Bowed Head, The Buried Face. She Is Silent, She Will Never Speak, Never Forgive, Never Reach A Hand, Never Leave This Frozen Present Tense. All Waits, Suspended. Suspended The Autumn Trees, The Autumn Sky, Anonymous People. A Blackbird, Poor Fool, Sings Out Of Season From The Willows By The Lake. A Flight Of Pigeons Over The Houses; Fragments Of Freedom, Hazard, An Anagram Made Flesh. And Somewhere The Stinging Smell Of Burning Leaves.

Only One Same Reason Is Shared By All Of Us: We Wish To Create Worlds As Real As, But Other Than The World That Is. Or Was. This Is Why We Cannot Plan. We Know A World Is An Organism, Not A Machine. We Also Know That A Genuinely Created World Must Be Independent Of Its Creator; A Planned World (a World That Fully Reveals Its Planning) Is A Dead World. It Is Only When Our Characters And Events Begin To Disobey Us That They Begin To Live.

Our Knowledge Of What The Richer Than Ourselves Possess, And The Poor Do Not, Has Never Been More Widespread. Therefore, Envy, Which Is Wanting What Others Have, And Jealousy, Which Is Not Wanting Others To Have What One Has, Have Never Been More Widespread.

That Was The Tragedy. Not That One Man Had The Courage To Be Evil. But That Millions Had Not The Courage To Be Good.