Promises were made for people who do not trust each other.
What we once fling away never comes again to us.
we are all given the ingredients of happiness, but the mixing is left to ourselves.
there was not a tree on the place, only the horrible prickly pear bushes thrusting out their distorted arms as if exulting in their own nakedness.
What the world, social and political, concrete and mental, really needs is not new things, but the old things made new.
Death is the opening-and the closing-of a Door.