Here I Am, Where I Am Supposed

The Cicada Sing An Endless Song In The Long Grass, Smells Run Along The Earth And Falling Stars Run Over The Sky, Like Tears Over A Cheek. You Are The Privileged Person To Whom Everything Is Taken. The Kings Of Tarshish Shall Bring Gifts.

What Is Man, When You Come To Think Upon Him, But A Minutely Set, Ingenious Machine For Turning With Infinite Artfulness, The Red Wine Of Shiraz Into Urine?

To Be A Person Is To Have A Story To Tell.

We Must Leave Our Mark On Life While We Have It In Our Power.

Who Tells A Finer Tale Than Any Of Us. Silence Does.