I Have An Editor In My Head,

Each Of Us Has Something Within Us Which Won't Be Denied, Even If It Makes Us Scream Aloud To Die. We Are What We Are, That's All. Like The Old Celtic Legend Of The Bird With The Thorn In Its Breast, Singing Its Heart Out And Dying. Because It Has To, Its Self-knowledge Can't Affect Or Change The Outcome, Can It? Everyone Singing His Own Little Song, Convinced It's The Most Wonderful Song The World Has Ever Heard. Don't You See? We Create Our Own Thorns, And Never Stop To Count The Cost. All We Can Do Is Suffer The Pain, And Tell Ourselves It Was Well Worth It.

And Gradually His Memory Slipped A Little, As Memories Do, Even Those With So Much Love Attached To Them; As If There Is An Unconscious Healing Process Within The Mind Which Mends Up In Spite Of Our Desperate Determination Never To Forget.

Truly God Was Good, To Make Man So Blind.

Twelve Thousand Miles Of It, To The Other Side Of The World. And Whether They Came Home Again Or Not, They Would Belong Neither Here, Nor There, For They Would Have Lived On Two Continents And Sampled Two Different Ways Of Life.

If You Love People, They Kill You. If You Need People, They Kill You. They Do I Tell You!