What misery to be afraid of death. What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.

I was hurrying through my own soul . . . I was leaning out . . . I was listening.

I saw that worrying had come to nothing and gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.

All culture developed as some wild, raw creature strived to live better and longer.

I have a little dog who likes to nap with me. He climbs on my body and puts his face in my neck. He is sweeter than soap. He is more wonderful than a diamond necklace, which can't even bark.

Today again I am hardly myself. It happens over and over.

Can one be passionate about the just, the ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit no labor in its cause? I don't think so. All summations have a beginning, all effect has a story, all kindness beings with the sown seed. Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of light is the crossroads of - indolence, or action. Be ignited or be gone.