Anyone Who Thinks They Can

Here I Am, Safely Returned Over Those Peaks From A Journey Far More Beautiful And Strange Than Anything I Had Hoped For Or Imagined - How Is It That This Safe Return Brings Such Regret?

In Nonfiction, You Have That Limitation, That Constraint, Of Telling The Truth.

If We Were Doomed To Live Forever, We Would Scarcely Be Aware Of The Beauty Around Us.

You See ... A Man Like Me, A Cautious Man, Has His Life All Figured Out According To A Pattern, And Then The Pattern Flies Apart. You Run Around For Quite A While Trying To Repair It, Until One Day You Straighten Up Again With An Armful Of Broken Pieces, And You See That The World Has Gone On Without You And You Can Never Catch Up With Your Old Life, And You Must Begin All Over Again.

Figures Dark Beneath Their Loads Pass Down The Far Bank Of The River, Rendered Immortal By The Streak Of Sunset Upon Their Shoulders