I need books to destroy myself and come back again. The boy walked along the brook. Trees were there. Wanting to know about books. His book held his hand and didn’t think at all. Aren’t we nicely composed and nicely alive enough to slice ourselves a thought or more. The boy wished he knew who could be a thought. Could I be a thought? It’s nice walking with brooks.
-M. Taggart
mtaggartwriter 