If I Can't Write It Would Be

It Was The Month Of May And There Was Warm Sunshine Dripping Through The Holes Between The Clouds, Like The Sky Was A Broken Blue Bowl And A Child Was Trying To Keep Honey In It.

I'm Not Happy With Just Repeating Myself.

Something I Am Now Convinced Of, After Researching Everyone Brave, Is That None Of Us Is Born Courageous In All Respects.

I Think All Of Us Are Intrigued To Imagine What We As Individuals Would Become, If We Were Ever Tested As Hard As That Golden Generation Was.

We Were Exiles From Reality That Summer. We Were Refugees From Ourselves.