One Could Go On Revising A Prose

Old Age Is Not An Illness, It Is A Timeless Ascent. As Power Diminishes, We Grow Toward The Light.

Do Not Deprive Me Of My Age. I Have Earned It.

We Have To Believe That Every Person Counts, Counts As A Creative Force That Can Move Mountains.

A Great Silence Has Descended On Me For The Last Six Months. I Am As Silent As An Arab In The Desert, As Dry, Thirsty, And Full Of Wonder And Rumours Which Do Not Materialize Into Camels Or Travellers At All, But Just Vanish Into The Silent Spaces From Where They Came. I Expect This Is A Good Thing Though It Is Extremely Irritating - The Brink Of A Voice And Never A Voice.

Where Joy In An Old Pencil Is Not Absurd.