You Give Birth To That On Which

One Man May Hit The Mark, Another Blunder; But Heed Not These Distinctions. Only From The Alliance Of The One, Working With And Through The Other, Are Great Things Born.

How Could There Be Any Question Of Acquiring Or Possessing, When The One Thing Needful For A Man Is To Become - To Be At Last, And To Die In The Fullness Of His Being.

He Who Has Gone, So We But Cherish His Memory, Abides With Us, More Potent, Nay, More Present Than The Living Man.

So The Crew Fly On With No Thought That They Are In Motion. Like Night Over The Sea, They Are Very Far From The Earth, From Towns, From Trees. The Clock Ticks On. The Dials, The Radio Lamps, The Various Hands And Needles Go Though Their Invisible Alchemy. . . . And When The Hour Is At Hand The Pilot May Glue His Forehead To The Window With Perfect Assurance. Out Of Oblivion The Gold Has Been Smelted: There It Gleams In The Lights Of The Airport.

You're Not A Man, You're A Mushroom!