But a man needs company.

The cars of the migrant people crawled out of the side roads onto the great cross-country highway, and they took the migrant way to the West.... And because they were lonely and perplexed, because they had all come from a place of sadness and worry and defeat, and because they were all going to a mysterious new place, ... a strange thing happened: the twenty families became one family, the children were the children of all. The loss of home became one loss, and the golden time in the West was one dream.

But most important of all, the truth, that dangerous stuff, became beautiful and more precious.

How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise - the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream - be set down alive?

As with many people, Charles, who could not talk, wrote with fullness. He set down his loneliness and his perplexities, and he put on paper many things he did not know about himself.

Maybe not having time to think is not having the wish to think.

The comfortable people in tight houses felt pity at first, and then distaste, and finally hatred for the migrant people.