What We Owe Men Is Some Freedom

We Write About What We Don't Know About What We Know.

A Lot Of Sad Things Have Happened To My Friends' Children, People You Knew As Babies. They've Been Killed Or Become Crazy Or All Kinds Of Tragic Things. There Are Some People Whose Children Haven't Talked To Them In Fifteen Years. There's All Kind Of Meshugaas In This World.

I Often See Through Things Right To The Apparition Itself.

If You're Old And You're Healthy And You're Active - I Don't Mean You Have To Be Politically Active - If You Remain Interested In Other People And The World, Then You Live As Well As Your Health Will Allow.

This Hill Crossed With Broken Pines And Maples Lumpy With The Burial Mounds Of Uprooted Hemlocks (hurricane Of '38) Out Of Their Rotting Hearts Generations Rise Trying Once More To Become The Forest Just Beyond Them Tall Enough To Be Called Trees In Their Youth Like Aspen A Bouquet Of Young Beech Is Gathered They Still Wear Last Summer's Leaves The Lightest Brown Almost Translucent How Their Stubbornness Has Decorated The Winter Woods.