Of revolution I do speak. Protests, politics, and war are outward symptoms of inner conflict, as sure as the seasons. Everything I write is a call to revolution — that defining moment when one decides not to change the world, but himself. As long as we are blind to the connection between what is going on in the world and the way we live our daily lives, we are doomed to fail. Without this understanding, taking to the streets is dangerously akin to the thrill of organized athletics or religion: the moment we return home and our adrenalin subsides, we are alone again with our fears, our hatreds, and our doubts. What good are our protests, what possible meaning can they have, when we dominate our children and those we claim to love? What good are our votes, when we are dishonest in our day-to-day business dealings? If we are not responsible for our actions, why should we expect anything different from our so-called leaders? We are the society and world we have made. Each starving child starves in our lives and in our minds. Every bullet fired, we have fired. Every book burned, every inquisition, every raped woman, child, and forest — surely we must see. And oh, how I love the autumn — this colorful leaf I am, soon to die, soon to be swept aside, even as the browned fiber of me yearns for the next life, and the next, and the next, eloquent food for worms.