good Night.

You could feel the war getting ready in the sky that night. The way the clouds moved aside and came back, and the way the stars looked, a million of them swimming between the clouds, like the enemy discs, and the feeling that the sky might fall upon the city and turn it to chalk dust, and the moon go up in red fire; that was how the night felt.

"My grandfather ran off the V-2 rocket film a dozen times and then hoped that someday our cities would open up more and let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people that we're allottted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, someday it will come in and get us, for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be. You see?" Granger tunred to Montag.
"Grandfather's been dead for all these years, but if you lifted my skull, by G-d, in the convolutions of my brain you'd find the big ridges of his thumbprint. He touched me. As I said earlier, he was a sculptor. 'I hate a Roman named Status Quo!' he said to me. 'Stuff your eyes with wonder,' he said, 'live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that,' he said, 'shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass.' "

Jibber Jabber

"Oh G-d, the way they jabber about people and their children and themselves and the way they talk about their husbands and the way they talk about war, dammit, I stand here and I can't believe it!"

The beetle jabbed his ear.

:) twice in one pg.

walls

Nobody listens anymore. I can't talk to the walls, because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to my wife because she listens to the walls.

So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life. The comfortable people want only wax moon faces, poreless, hairless, expressionless. We are living in a time when flowers are trying to live on flowers, instead of growing on good rain and black loam. Even fireworks, for all their prettiness, come from the chemistry of the earth. Yet somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, wiithout completing the cycle back to reality.

Fly... for me.

Once as a child he had sat upon a yellow dune by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand, because some cruel cousin has said, "Fill this sieve and you'll get a dime!" And the faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot whispering. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty. Seated there in midst of July, without a sound, he felt the tears move down his cheeks.

Sometimes, it's better to let the tears just come. And if the water falling down my cheeks can represent a life, then they are a crying sea of violin bows, sprouted grains, tai kwon do black belts, jet black hair, the sweetest voices and brightest smiles. I'll miss you Toby. Now, you can fly for all of us...