"Timshel."
And I said, "I know why the mockingbird sings." I don't. Anyone who thinks they know is a damned fool. I imagine. Or a Buddha, or Dalai Lama, or a Mother Teresa of inner thought, and even in their knowledge they wouldn't be certain. Not absolutely sure. Because to them such certainty is absurd, I'm sure. Steinbeck, that old rascal, knew this to be true. He knew there was nothing to quite put your finger on. Yes, two sheep will be two sheep, today and tomorrow. And the leaves will be green until they change and die. He knew this obviously. But that is because there's no question to it. No question, "Why?" No worth in its knowledge. For with all things worth knowing there can never be true certainty. It there isn't a second guess in your mind, where's the power in it? That's why one has a pencil (he probably had a pen though, who knows). To let the finger wander with the mind to a point of conclusion. Or not. If I ever find that point, my finger would stop on it, and so would my words because I would have found what I've been searching for all this time. "Timshel," he said with his last breath. Thou mayest. And I just might, but probably not. What would I write about then? About Brittany?
Ah, yes. She was a something else. A pretty face that always seemed to hold such wonder in it's eyes. By brown doe eyes and a high soft voice that struck the prettiest chords that night in her bed. She'd bite her lower lip to hold it back. Her's was a small mouth, and a small pussy too. Tight. So that it held me inside her. It was making love because in that moment I'd have done anything for her. And who wouldn't really? With those overflowing breasts, her athletic legs, and curves that filled out just perfectly. Anything I tell you, anything. In that moment I was her's. I even offered to go down on her, and she said no because it made her timid. And in my mind I wanted to marry her. She is why the mockingbird sings. But she's not the only reason.
Thanks for the book, love.
