Slowing off the freeway into this country town, I turn off the radio curious to see the real world—brick buildings, cottages off in rows— give me a squeeze, pinch me it’s real. Let us open a shop and grow old together selling wine and cheese and things that people can use. Let us be practical. Where would romance, idealism, or philosophy lead us if we had not respect for facts? These buildings are old. These maple trees are old. Let us grow old together forgetting the artifice and bother of media and traffic.
17 September 1981, Willits