I Sometimes Talk About The Making Of

This Constitutional Republic Called America Is An Historic Aberration. Any Honest Student Of History Will Note That The Prevailing Socio-economic System Is Feudalism, Where A Tiny Minority Control The Vast Majority Of Wealth, Power, And Resources. In Doing So, They Have Absolute Control Over The 99% Of The Population. Power Equals Control.

Till I, High In The Tower Of My Time Among Familiar Ruins, Began To Cry For Accident, Sickness, Justice, War And Crime, Because All Died, Because I Had To Die. The Snow Fell, The Trees Stood, The Promise Kept, And A Child I Slept.

That So Much Of Our Experience, Or The Stereotype Which Passes For It Should Be Dealt With By Means Of The Short Story Is Perhaps A Symptom Not Unnoticeable Elsewhere In The Public Domain Of An Unlovely Cynicism About Human Character.

When Robert Frost Was Alive, I Was Known As The Other New England Poet, Which Is To Be Barely Known At All.

Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.