Using A First-person Narrator Is Simply A

Then The Sun Broke Above The Crest Of The Hills And The Entire Countryside Looked Soaked In Blood, The Arroyos Deep In Shadow, The Cones Of Dead Volcanoes Stark And Biscuit-colored Against The Sky. I Could Smell Pinion Trees, Wet Sage, Woodsmoke, Cattle In The Pastures, And Creek Water That Had Melted From Snow. I Could Smell The Way The Country Probably Was When It Was Only A Dream In The Mind Of God.

Is There A Design In The Events Of Our Lives? Or Do Things Just Happen, Much Like A Junk Yard Falling Down A Staircase? If It's The Latter, How Do You Deal With It?

The System Shaves The Dice On The Side Of Those With Money And Power, And Anyone Who Believes Otherwise Deserves Anything That Happens To Him.

Age Is A Peculiar Kind Of Thief. It Slips Up On You And Steps Inside Your Skin And Is So Quiet And Methodical In Its Work That You Never Realize It Has Stolen Your Youth Until You Look Into The Mirror One Morning And See A Man You Don't Recognize.

I Sometimes Subscribe To The Belief That All Historical Events Occur Simultaneously, Like A Dream In The Mind Of God. Perhaps It Is Only Man Who Views Time Sequentially And Tries To Impose A Solar Calendar Upon It. What If Other People, Both Dead And Unborn, Are Living Out Their Lives In The Same Space We Occupy, Without Our Knowledge Or Consent?" The Glass Rainbow, P. 138