Life Is A Memory, And Then It

I've Always Been Interested In The Southwest. There Isn't A Place In The World You Can Go Where They Don't Know About Cowboys And Indians And The Myth Of The West.

They Rode Like Men Invested With A Purpose Whose Origins Were Antecedent To Them, Like Blood Legatees Of An Order Both Imperative And Remote. For Although Each Man Among Them Was Discrete Unto Himself, Conjoined They Made A Thing That Had Not Been Before And In That Communal Soul Were Wastes Hardly Reckonable More Than Those Whited Regions On Old Maps Where Monsters Do Live And Where There Is Nothing Other Of The Known World Save Conjectural Winds.

Suppose You Were The Last One Left? Suppose You Did That To Yourself?

In Every Trade Save War Men Of Talent And Vigor Prosper. In War They Die.

Not All Dying Words Are True And This Blessing Is No Less Real For Being Shorn Of Its Ground.