August 9, 1963 – February 11, 2012



“His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by

the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood

it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know

when it was brushed or marred.

Later he became

conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction

and he learned to think and could not fly any more

because the love of flight was gone and he could only

remember when it had been effortless.”

― Ernest Hemingway



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