I Don't Know What It Is About

We All Have Two Things In Common, No Matter Who We Are: We Were Born And We Are Going To Die.

You'll Come To My Grave? To Tell Me Your Problems?" My Problems? "yes.' And You'll Give Me Answers? "i'll Give You What I Can. Don't I Always?" I Picture His Grave, On The Hill, Overlooking The Pond, Some Little Nine Foot Piece Of Earth Where They Will Place Him, Cover Him With Dirt, Put A Stone On Top. Maybe In A Few Weeks? Maybe In A Few Days? I See Myself Sitting There Alone, Arms Across My Knees, Staring Into Space. It Won't Be The Same, I Say, Not Being Able To Hear You Talk. "ah, Talk . . . " He Closes His Eyes And Smiles. "tell You What. After I'm Dead, You Talk. And I'll Listen.

What's Wrong With Being Number 2?

You're Not Going To Fix Things By Helping 65-year-olds Or 75-year-olds For Any Long Run.

You Need To Keep People Close. You Need To Give Them Access To Your Heart.