I am often so open that it pains me. It is like wailing. "Has this man no modesty?" But, at 60 with five stents in my heart and the runs in the hills like murderous escapes, I feel like the clock is running out of batteries. I am so open now, but not so open yet that as a writer, there will be no stone unturned. I am working up the nerve to do that, where every word is the truth and the correct word. Will there be time for that? Is that the right way? I feel, at times, that I may have traveled with some irresponsibility to the actual truth, which is about those jobs I mentioned earlier and raising families and being normal. But, how could I have ever done that given my history, my mother's history, my father's, his father's? I worry about the future, but I also believe in Heidegger's statement: “The world’s darkening never reaches/to the light of Being.”