Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, seperate, in the evening.

Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows.

That’s love: Two lonely persons keep each other safe and touch each other and talk to each other.

Whoever you are, go out into the evening, leaving your room, of which you know every bit; your house is the last before the infinite, whoever you are.

I am too alone in the world and not alone enough to make every moment holy.

It is true that these mysteries are dreadful, and people have always drawn away from them. But where can we find anything sweet and glorious that would never wear this mask, the mask of the dreadful? Whoever does not, sometimes or other, give his full consent, his full and joyous consent to the dreadfulness of life, can never take possession of the unutterable abundance and power of our existence; can only walk on its edge, and one day, when the judgment is given, will have been neither alive nor dead.

Perhaps then, some day far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.