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Your fingertips across my skin, the palm trees swaying in the wind - images. You sang me Spanish lullabies, the sweetest sadness in your eyes - clever trick. / I cannot go to the ocean, I cannot drive the streets at night, I cannot wake up in the morning without you on my mind, so you're gone and I'm haunted, and I bet you are just - fine. Did I make it that easy to walk right in and out of my life?
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I'm one-hundred-fifty miles off Cape Horn, both autopilots are broken, and my boat is drifting toward one of the nastiest chunks of ocean on the face of the earth.
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We hail the return of the day of thy birth, Fair Columbia! washed by the waves of two oceans Where men from the farthest dominions of earth Rear altars to Freedom, and pay their devotions; Where our fathers in fight, nobly strove for the Right, Struck down their fierce foemen or put them to flight; Through the long lapse of ages, that so there might be An asylum for all in the Land of the Free.
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Later, in the early teens, I used to ride my bike every Saturday morning to the nearest airport, ten miles away, push airplanes in and out of the hangars, and clean up the hangars.
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The pilot looked at his cues of attitude and speed and orientation and so on and responded as he would from the same cues in an airplane, but there was no way it flew the same. The simulators had showed us that.
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She flew like a bird, only faster.
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I am the East. I have philosophies, I have religions, who would exchange them for airplanes?
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We have not invaded anyone. We have not conquered anyone. We have not grabbed their land, their culture, their history and tried to enforce our way of life on them.
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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?
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As soon as the land of any country has all become private property, the landlords, like all other men, love to reap where they never sowed, and demand a rent even for its natural produce.
