The window opens to the freeway. As the sun slips behind a hill, I lean forward and breathe in. The air, still unseasonably warm, foreshadows a chill, the specter of the diminishing year only hours away.
2001 Ivar Street, our space odyssey.
If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would appear to man as it is: infinite.--William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
...The world as it appears to me is my creation, and for it I must assume responsibility. Given, as the bricks out of which I can build a universe, is a chaotic kaleidoscope of colors, shapes, sounds, moods, hopes, fears, joys, pains, ideas, movements...Out of this anarchy, I organize a world for myself. I subdue the disordered shapelessness into a world by choosing one out of an infinity of possible structures.--Peter Koestenbaum, Existentialism: Philosophical Anthropology
To die before you’ve reached the sky is tragedy--the sky is always an inch away from our fingertips--no matter how high we may reach.
--Jeff A. Brown