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Anyone who has looked at the open sea under a special kind of illumination or in a mood conducive to metaphor will tell you of the curious illusion that the ocean, despite its movement, has a certain solidity; it becomes a gray or glaucous desert, a waste land which stretches away to the horizon, and all you would have to do would be to step over the lifelines to walk away over its surface;

En av fordelene med å bli voksen er at man ikke trenger å løpe hvis man ikke vil

They ascend into the street, where once again, overnight, all together, pear trees have exploded into bloom. Even this time of year, there could be snow, it's New York, but for now the brightness in the street is from flowers on trees whose shadows are texturing the sidewalks. It's their moment, the year's great pivot, it'll last for a few days, then all collect in the gutters.

Does anybody get extra lives? Does anybody even get this one?

And who,really,is so fancy-schmancy they can't appreciate "Volare," arguably among the greatest pop tunes ever written? Young man dreams he's flying in the sky,above it all,defying gravity and time,like having midlife early,in the second verse he wakes up,back on earth,first thing he sees is the big blue eyes of the woman he loves. And that will turn out to be sky enough for him. All men should grow up so gracefully.

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.

Don't ask for guarantees. And don't look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were headed for the shore.

We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?

[D]own there, down where it smells like warm Brine and Gunpowder fumes, they're murdering and dispossessing thousands untallied, the innocent of the World, passing daily into the Hands of Slave-Owners and Torturers, but oh, never in Holland, nor in England, that Garden of Fools...?

Each Milestone passes like another Rung of a Ladder ascended. Behind, - below, - diminishing, they hear, and presently lose, a Voicing disconsolate, of Regret at their Flight.

"Six months...? a man can pass thro' an entire phase of his life in that time. Have an Adventure,- who knows?"

Outside this ephemeral Hut, anything may wait. Mountains sharp and steep as the Heights of Hell.

"Maybe you can't be wholly yourself because you've never given yourself wholly to someone else."

"You know, Doc, there's a kind of smartness that cuts its own throat. Haven't you knew people that was so busy being smart they never had time to do nothing else?"