I Don't Hold Myself Dictated To By

It's Just That It's Hard To Believe In Greatness.

But That Isn't My Life. I Have Said Many Times I Don't Want To Be Considered One Who Once Flew Fighters. That's Not Who I Am. I Devoted The Subsequent 50 Years - More - To Writing.

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.

Dialogue's A Method Of Revelation, Of Course. A Few Words Of Dialogue Can Reveal Worlds About A Character.

There Is No Complete Life. There Are Only Fragments. We Are Born To Have Nothing, To Have It Pour Through Our Hands. And Yet, This Pouring, This Flood Of Encounters, Struggles, Dreams...