I Am Afraid Of Him,

I Write Down Portions, Maybe Fragments, And Perhaps An Imperfect View Of What Im Hoping To Write. Out Of That, I Keep Trying To Find Exactly What I Want.

Children Are Our Crop, Our Fields, Our Earth. They Are Birds Let Loose Into Darkness. They Are Errors Renewed. Still, They Are The Only Source From Which May Be Drawn A Life More Successful, More Knowing Than Our Own. Somehow They Will Do One Thing, Take One Step Further, They Will See The Summit. We Believe In It, The Radiance That Streams From The Future, From Days We Will Not See. Children Must Live, Must Triumph. Children Must Die; That Is An Idea We Cannot Accept.

One Is Seduced And Battered In Turn. The Result Is Presumably Wisdom. Wisdom! We Are Clinging To Life Like Lizards. Why Is It So Difficult To Assemble Those Things That Really Matter In Life And To Dwell Among Them Only? I Am Referring To Certain Landscapes, Persons, Beasts, Books, Rooms, Meteorological Conditions, Fruits. In Fact, I Insist On It. A Letter Is Like A Poem, It Leaps Into Life And Shows Very Clearly The Marks, Perhaps I Should Say Thumbprints, Of An Unwilling Or Unready Composer.

Dialogue's A Method Of Revelation, Of Course. A Few Words Of Dialogue Can Reveal Worlds About A Character.

But Knowledge Does Not Protect One. Life Is Contemptuous Of Knowledge; It Forces It To Sit In The Anterooms, To Wait Outside. Passion, Energy, Lies: These Are What Life Admires. Still, Anything Can Be Endured If All Humanity Is Watching. The Martyrs Prove It. We Live In The Attention Of Others. We Turn To It As Flowers To The Sun.