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Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
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11/25/2004: "Thanks"



For life; for motion, and perception, and intuition, and intellect, practical and speculative. For a world to live in, real, true, and concrete. For truth which can be known, and a soul with the potential to know it. For those who came before, who laid the foundation. For my family, who protected me and turned me in the direction I went. For Ruth and Joe. For the homes and the food that have sustained and protected me. For the schools that made me flawed and educated, rather than flawed and ignorant. For the friends of my childhood, of my youth, of my adulthood, and of today. Mark, Chris, Bill, Sara, Steve, Cathy, Tom, Neal, Josh. For the joys and sorrows of past loves, of mistakes made, of foolishness and foolhardiness, for those who survived and those who perished. For Alyson, for Laurel. For the times of searching, and developing skills. For the way things changed, and for the strength I found, which was not my own. For the grief that brought me to new life. For Bill and Rose. For Mary Lou, Liz, and Joanna. For Marilyn, for Louisa, for Joan. For real people with real names. For a way to help. For Katie, Denis, and Jenny; Kelly and Kathy; Lena and Sue; Bill and Lynne; George, George, and George; Carol, Carol, and Carole; and all the rest from Audrey to Bjorn, who have given, each according their abilities, generously and without ceasing. For the gift of the past, and its home in memory: of the present, that indestructible feather: and the future, where hope dwells.



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