If There Were One More Thing I

What Is Life When You Come To Think Upon It, But A Most Excellent, Accurately Set, Infinitely Complicated Machine For Turning Fat Playful Puppies Into Old Mangy Blind Dogs, And Proud War Horses Into Skinny Nags, And Succulent Young Boys, To Whom The World Holds Great Delights And Terrors, Into Old Weak Men, With Running Eyes, Who Drink Ground Rhino-horn?

Human Talk Is A Centrifugal Function, Ever In Flight Outwards From What Is On The Talker's Mind.

To Me, The Explanation Of Life Seems To Be Its Melody, Its Pattern. And I Feel In Life Such An Infinite, Truly Inconceivable Fantasy.

You Must Not Think That I Feel, In Spite Of It Having Ended In Such Defeat, That My "life Has Been Wasted" Here, Or That I Would Exchange It With That Of Anyone I Know.

I Have A Feeling That Wherever I May Be In The Future, I Will Be Wondering Whether There Is Rain At Ngong.