The end of life has its own nature, also worth our attention.

I have trouble with some books because I'm so much in agreement with them I'd rather just sit in the grass myself.

Every morning I walk like this around the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.

But the owls themselves are not hard to find, silent and on the wing, with their ear tufts flat against their heads as they fly and their huge wings alternately gliding and flapping as they maneuver through the trees. Athena's owl of wisdom and Merlin's companion, Archimedes, were screech owls surely, not this bird with the glassy gaze, restless on the bough, nothing but blood on its mind.

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.

And I say to my heart: rave on.

I don't ask for the sights in front of me to change, only the depth of my seeing.