According to the radio a storm is coming. The giant oak raises lead balances like a clock. A friend once told me my writing was “too experiential” but I didn’t ask him what he meant. A storm is coming. It wishes me neither good nor ill. I have a thirst for simple answers. The storm has no thirst–no patience, just a promise.
Trotsky said: “ideas that enter the mind under fire remain there securely and forever.” But I have too many friends damaged beyond recognition by war to believe him. Ideas that happen by fire are not secure. They are like small birds at the scene of an explosion.
It’s the hours before a storm that count.
Planet of the Blind 