Life is as beautiful, as you want to see it.
Toys tossed on the floor Hand prints on the wallSlamming of the doorAnd footsteps down the hallBoxes made into towersCovers turned into tentsVoices get a lil' louderGuide lines get a lil' bentBoxes now go untouchedCovers in a folded pileSilence never was so muchGuide lines never been n' awhileDid we waste our time a wayWe once had back thenNever taking time to playTo 'oft we walked right past themNow they're grown and gone The house stands still and neatOnly memories left to carry onOh, how our hearts do often weepWould we change time if we could?Would we play a bigger part?Did we get too wrapped up in the world?For now we're left with justMemories of the heart.
I think I was lucky to come of age in a place and time - the American South in the 1960s and '70s - when the machine hadn't completely taken over life. The natural world was still the world, and machines - TV, telephone, cars - were still more or less ancillary, and computers were unheard of in everyday life.
Excluded by my birth and tastes from the social order, I was not aware of its diversity. Nothing in the world was irrelevant: the stars on a general's sleeve, the stock-market quotations, the olive harvest, the style of the judiciary, the wheat exchange, flower-beds. Nothing. This order, fearful and feared, whose details were all inter-related, had a meaning: my exile.