新视野大学英语4unit8.pptVIP

At certain times I have no race, I am me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of mixed items propped up against a wall—against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a pile of small things both valuable and worthless. Bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since decayed away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still with a little fragrance. In your hand is the brow