Looking back now across fifteen years I could see with great clarity the fear I had lived in, which must mean that in the interval I had succeeded in a very important undertaking: I must have made my escape from it.

Stranded in this mill town railroad yard while the whole world was converging elsewhere, we seemed to be nothing but children playing among heroic men.

As I walked briskly out the road the wind knifed at my face, but this sun caressed the back of my neck.

It was demeaning to scrape affection from virtually everyone you encountered. That was immature.

So the more things remained the same, the more they changed after all. Nothing endures. Not love, not a tree, not even a death by violence.

Peace is indivisible, and the surrounding world confusion found no reflection inside me.

Sarcasm is the protest of the weak.