I Was Five Years Old The First

The Function Of Man Is To Live, Not To Exist.

Pictures! Pictures! Pictures! Often, Before I Learned, Did I Wonder Whence Came The Multitudes Of Pictures That Thronged My Dreams; For They Were Pictures The Like Of Which I Had Never Seen In Real Wake-a-day Life. They Tormented My Childhood, Making Of My Dreams A Procession Of Nightmares And A Little Later Convincing Me That I Was Different From My Kind, A Creature Unnatural And Accursed.

But Nobody Else Ever Romped With White Fang. He Did Not Permit It. He Stood On His Dignity, And When They Attempted It, His Warning Snarl And Bristling Mane Were Anything But Playful. That He Allowed The Master These Liberties Was No Reason That He Should Be A Common Dog, Loving Here And Loving There, Everybody's Property For A Romp And Good Time. He Loved With Single Heart And Refused To Cheapen Himself Or His Love.

The Grapes On A Score Of Rolling Hills Are Red With Autumn Flame. Across Sonoma Mountain Wisps Of Sea Fog Are Stealing. The Afternoon Sun Smoulders In The Drowsy Sky. I Have Everything To Make Me Glad I Am Alive. I Am Filled With Dreams And Mysteries. I Am All Sun And Air And Sparkle. I Am Vitalized, Organic.

Ever Bike? Now That's Something That Makes Life Worth Living!