I Could Write For Hours

There Is An Ideal Standard Somewhere And Only That Matters And I Cannot Find It. Hence The Aimlessness.

The Beduin Of The Desert, Born And Grown Up In It, Had Embraced With All His Sour This Nakedness Too Harsh For Volunteers, For The Reason, Felt But Inarticulate, That There He Found Himself Indubitably Free.

Some Of The Evil Of My Tale May Have Been Inherent In Our Circumstances. For Years We Lived Anyhow With One Another In The Naked Desert, Under The Indifferent Heaven.

We Lived Always In The Stretch Or Sag Of Nerves, Either On The Crest Or In The Trough Of Waves Of Feeling.

To Make War Upon Rebellion Is Messy And Slow, Like Eating Soup With A Knife.