Thoughts to a Friend
I am driving along a county road trailing a thick cloud of dust, and on the seat beside me a bag of books, among which a well-worn volume by George Eliot. Ahead of me, from the barb-wire fence, Sparrows take to the air, flying this way and that before me
A thought comes to mind:
Golden moments in the stream of life slip past us, and we see nothing; angels come to visit, and we only know them when they are gone.
My friend, the sky is bright and clear and my few troubles lie in the past. Ahead, as far as I can see, a golden future awaits. With only my books, and they can but gently chide my trifling inadequacies, and only then, if I choose to look.
Well and good, my friend, but if I am the last person on earth would this be heaven or hell?