I Was Carrying Two Cargoes. Yes, One

Our Stories Are The Tellers Of Us.

We Cannot Choose Where To Start And Stop. Our Stories Are The Tellers Of Us.

I Planned How I Would Kill Myself In The Time Of Churchill (stand Under Bombs), Victoria (throw Myself Under A Horse), And Henry The Eighth (marry Henry The Eighth)- Little Bee

When I Reached Fort Binjemma, For Example, Where My Grandfather Was Stationed For A While, The Whole Victorian Fort Was Decaying. Barbed Wire Surrounded It, Spray Paint On The Ancient Walls Claimed It As Private Property, And The Moat Where My Grandfather And His Men Had Grown Crops - In Desperation As The Siege's Hunger Bit - Was Completely Overgrown With Bushes And Trees.

And Thus Love Makes Fools Of Us All.