We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.