Rabbit Redux

His insides are beginning to feel sickly. The pain of the world is a crater all these syrups and pills a thousandfold would fail to fill.

Like water, blood must run or grow scum.

Freedom, that he always thought was outward motion, turns out to be this inward dwindling.

Thirty-six years old and he knows less than when he started. With the difference that now he knows how little he'll always know.

All men are boys time is trying to outsmart.

Halfway isn't all the way, but it's better than no way.

Any decent kind of world, you wouldn't need all these rules.

There was a beauty here, refined from country pastures, a game of solitariness, of waiting, waiting for the pitcher to complete his gaze toward first base and throw his lightning, a game whose very taste, of spit and dust and grass and sweat and leather and sun, was America.

Time is our element, not a mistaken invader.