Somebody Said The Prospect Of Eminent Death

You Cannot Condemn A Man For What May Only Be A Figment Of Your Own Imagination.

He Was One Of Those Quite Rare Adults Who Communicate With Small Children Fairly Well And Who Love Them All Impartially--not In A Sugary Way But In A Businesslike Fashion That May Sometimes Entail A Hug, In The Same Way That Closing A Big Business Deal May Call For A Handshake.

And All That Weirdness Isn't Just Going On Outside. It's In You Too, Right Now, Growing In The Dark Like Magic Mushrooms. Call It The Thing In The Cellar. Call It The Blow Lunch Factor. Call It The Loony Tunes File. I Think Of It As My Private Dinosaur, Huge, Slimy, And Mindless, Stumbling Around In The Stinking Swamp Of My Subconscious, Never Finding A Tar Pit Big Enough To Hold It.

If You Say, Well, Ok, I Don't Believe In God. There's No Evidence Of God, Then You're Missing The Stars In The Sky And You're Missing The Sunrises And Sunsets And You're Missing The Fact That Bees Pollinate All These Crops And Keep Us Alive And The Way That Everything Seems To Work Together. Everything Is Sort Of Built In A Way That To Me Suggests Intelligent Design.

Time's The Thief Of Memory