Toil, comrade,” he said, “is the highest aim of our lives. Who does not toil, shall not eat.” The book was filled. The official applied his rubber stamp to the last page. The stamp bore a globe overshadowed by a crossed sickle and hammer.

The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine’s Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine’s Day on February’s shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.

I raised that kid like I was running an egg-and-spoon race through a minefield, and he was the egg.

I still haven&#39;t come to grips with our success.

Written By Michael Hutchence

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