God! Whose Hand Was I Holding?

In The Country Of The Story The Writer Is King.

She Had Taken To Wondering Lately, During These Swift-counted Years, What Had Been Done With All Those Wasted Summer Days; How Could She Have Spent Them So Wantonly? I Am Foolish, She Told Herself Early Every Summer, I Am Very Foolish; I Am Grown Up Now And Know The Values Of Things. Nothing Is Ever Really Wasted, She Believed Sensibly, Even One's Childhood, And Then Each Year, One Summer Morning, The Warm Wind Would Come Down The City Street Where She Walked And She Would Be Touched With The Little Cold Thought: I Have Let More Time Go By.

I Never Was A Person Who Wanted A Handout. I Was A Cafeteria Worker. I'm Not Too Proud To Ask The Best Western Manager To Give Me A Job. I Have Cleaned Homes.

It Is Only With The Eyes Open That A Corporeal Form Returns, And Assembles Itself Firmly Around The Hard Core Of Sight.

No Live Organism Can Continue For Long To Exist Sanely Under Conditions Of Absolute Reality.