It Is Progress When A Centuries-old Oak

It Is Progress When Weapons Are Improved To Kill More People At A Longer Range.

Those Who Have Experienced The Most, Have Suffered So Much That They Have Ceased To Hate. Hate Is More For Those With A Slightly Guilty Conscience, And Who By Chewing On Old Hate In Times Of Peace Wish To Demonstrate How Great They Were During The War.

I Have Never Been Able To Grasp The Meaning Of Time. I Don't Believe It Exists. I've Felt This Again And Again, When Alone And Out In Nature. On Such Occasions, Time Does Not Exist. Nor Does The Future Exist.

Land! An Island! We Devoured It Greedily With Our Eyes And Woke The Others, Who Tumbled Out Drowsily And Stared In All Directions As If They Thought Our Bow Was About To Run On To A Beach. Screaming Seabirds Formed A Bridge Across The Sky In The Direction Of The Distant Island, Which Stood Out Sharper Against The Horizon As The Red Background Widened And Turned Gold With The Approach Of The Sun And The Full Daylight.

For Every Minute, The Future Is Becoming The Past.