Life Is Weather. Life Is

You Lived And Died Alone, Especially In Fighters. Fighters. Somehow, Despite Everything, That Word Had Not Become Sterile. You Slipped Into The Hollow Cockpit And Strapped And Plugged Yourself Into The Machine. The Canopy Ground Shut And Sealed You Off. Your Oxygen, Your Very Breath, You Carried Into The Chilled Vacuum, In A Steel Bottle.

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.

Life Passes Into Pages If It Passes Into Anything.

Being Somebody: It's One Of The Ideas In Life, No? That's What My Father Made Clear To Me. The Importance Of Being Somebody. He Wanted To Be Somebody. And He Underlined To Me The Fate Of Trying To Be Somebody And Not Quite Managing To Do It.

The Whole Joy Of Writing Comes From The Opportunity To Go Over It And Make It Good, One Way Or Another.