Perhaps I am compelled to write so much, so frequently because I am afraid. Riding the train this morning I came upon a passage in my subway-read which referenced work published 15 years earlier. For a hazy and roundabout minute, I seemed to recall the year and at the heartbeat of a heavy moment I felt fear. A faint sensation which irrevocably declared that I could not return, that the past is all that was said and done and that I have grown older because of it. That from an adolescent fifteen I have become a man of thirty, double the trouble, half the size, and no better for it. In my deceiving youth I thought that age would grant me the comfort of becoming wisdom, in my age I realize that I might be happier half as wise.
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l.m