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The food was self-explanatory, wasn't it? It was its own philosophy, it asked and answered its own questions. Wasn't it enough that your blood and your body asked no more than this moment of ritual and rare incense?

"Some people turn sad awfully young," he said. "No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I'm one of them."

"What ever happened to happy endings?"
"They got them on shows at Saturday matinees."
"Sure, but what about life?"
"All I know is I feel good going to bed nights, Doug.
That's a happy ending once a day. Next morning I'm up and maybe things go bad. But all I got to do is remember that I'm going to bed that night and just lying there a while makes everything okay."

..... But what of the mind which is born of the sun, William, and must spend thousands of hours of a lifetime awake and aware? Can you balance off the body, that pitiful, selfish thing of night against a whole lifetime of sun and intellect?

I've always known that the quality of love was the mind, even though the body sometimes refuses this knowledge. The body lives for itself. It lives only to feed and wait for the night. It's essentially nocturnal. .....

Or pour one single drop of this dandelion wine beneath a microscope and perhaps the entire world of July Fourth would firework out in Vesuvius showers. This he would have to believe.

It must be then that somewhere, searching the world, perhaps in the dripping multiboxed honeycombs where light was an amber sap stored by pollen-fired bees, or in the thirty thousand lenses of the noon dragonfly's gemmed skull you might find all the colors and sights of the world in any one year.

Somewhere, a book said once, all the talk ever talked, all the songs ever sung, still lived, had vibrated way out in space and if you could travel to Far Centauri you could hear George Washington talking in his sleep or Caesar surprised at the knife in his back. So much for sounds. What about light then? All things, once seen, they didn't just die, that couldn't be.

He saw the other numbered bottles waiting there, one like another, in no way different, all bright, all regular, all self-contained.
There's the day I found I was alive, he thought, and why isn't it brighter than the others?

.... Any town, New York, Chicago, with its people, becomes improbable with distance. Just as I am improbable here, in Illinois, in a small town by a quiet lake. All of us improbable to one another because we are not present to one another. And so it is good to hear the sounds, and know that Mexico City is still there and the people moving and living...

He wanted to say, "You're still there, aren't you? All of you people in that city in the time of the early siesta, the shops closing, the little boys crying loteria nacional para hoy! to sell lottery tickets. You are all there, the people in the city. I can't believe I was ever among you. When you are away from a city it becomes a fantasy...

....You're in the present, you're trapped in a young now or an old now, but there is no other now to be seen....
Be what you are, bury what you are not.

No matter how hard you try to be what you once were, you can only be what you are here and now. Time hypnotizes. When you're nine, you think you've always been nine years old and always will be. When you're thirty, it seems you've always been balanced there on that bright rim of middle life. And then when you turn seventy, you are always and forever seventy....

Was there, then, no strength in growing up? No solace in being an adult? No sanctuary in life? No fleshy citadel strong enough to withstand the scrabbling assault of midnights?

“It’s like your kisses make my scars fade” wrap it up I have things to do

Oh brotherrrr here we go again

😼😼😼😼😼😛😛😛😛😛😛😛👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅

Can we cut the preaching and get on with it

Oh BROTHER. wrap it up guys

It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

Only unleashed dogs can do that. They are a kind of poetry themselves when they are devoted not only to us but to the wet night, to the moon and the rabbit-smell in the grass and their own bodies leaping forward.

Well, see? Just keep on liking things.
And praying.
"I don't know anything about that."
Yes you do. Every time you wake up and love your life and the world, you're praying, my dear boy. I'm sure of it.

But remember, you can't fix everything in the world for everybody.
"However," said Ricky, "you can't do anything at all unless you begin.

Be prepared. A dog is adorable and noble.
A dog is a true and loving friend. A dog is also a hedonist.

This is Sammy's story. But I also think there are one or two poems in it somewhere. Maybe it's what life was like in this dear town years ago, and how a lot of us miss it.
Or maybe it's about the wonderful things that may happen if
you break the ropes that are holding you.

'Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you'd drop dead in ten sec-onds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guaran-tees, ask for no security, there never was such an ani-mal. And if there were, it would be related to the Beat sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away.

"Grandfather's been dead for all these years, but if you lifted my skull, by God, in the convolutions of my brain you'd find the big ridges of his thumbprint. He touched me. As I said earlier, he was a sculptor. 'I hate a Roman named Status Quo!' he said to me.