He wanted to know how many t-shirts could be made from that field.  His growing mind always wondering.  Good question, I thought.  I have no clue.  But that white… Bursting white amidst the still green foliage.  The tender purity of the contents erupting from such a sturdy stalk.  The thick, hard walls of the boll no longer able to contain the pure white begging to be seen.  So much light has been poured into that boll and that purity will not be contained any longer. Weren’t his words bursting from a place of purity?  He doesn’t yet have the weight…