No one took me seriously until I studied the blade...

I didn’t go to the moon. I went much further- for time is the longest distance between two places. [spoiler]Not long after that I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoe-box. I left Saint Louis. I descended the steps of this fire escape for a last time and followed, from then on, in my father’s footsteps, attempting to find in motion what was lost in space. I traveled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of colored glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colors, like bits of a shattered rainbow. Then all at once my sister touches my shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes. Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be! I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger — anything that can blow your candles out! For nowadays the world is lit by lightning! Blow out your candles, Laura — and so goodbye. . .[/spoiler]

I didn't have a TV back in my day! When we wanted entertainment, we'd gather around the radio and tune in for the weekly thrillers. Least 'til my pa sold the radio to buy a tractor and a few cows for the farm.

He heard it calling, like an echo on the wind. Something, somewhere out there, reaching out to tell him something. Its words only came to him in bits and pieces, not nearly enough to make sense of it all. Some days he clung onto ever letter of the whispers, hoping he was just missing a single key piece that would make the rest of it mean something. Those days he would sit outside, his eyes closed, laying there on the grass, waiting. Waiting for something, or anything, or everything. He would never find it. Perhaps he never knew what it was he was even looking for.