Gentle Reader,

I’m sorry, but you do not get any citations for this work.  Google might help you.  I hope, however, you enjoy this without the aid of Google.

Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs.  None of those other things makes a difference. Love is the strongest thing in the world, you know. Nothing can touch it. Nothing comes close. If we love each other we’re safe from it all. Love is the biggest thing there is.  What I mean is that some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.  Sometimes we get sad about things and we don’t like to tell other people that we are sad about them. We like to keep it a secret. Or sometimes, we are sad but we really don’t know why we are sad, so we say we aren’t sad but we really are.  You forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget.  The only lies for which we are truly punished are those we tell ourselves.  But there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm – yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.  It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.  That is when we mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little pale about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, “Oh, nothing!” Pride helps; and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us to hide our hurts— not to hurt others.  Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.  But life is to be lived, not controlled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.  Yet, terror made me cruel.  Anyway, the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.  Finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, my brain dried up and I went completely out of my mind.

All the best,

Stewart Carrier