By Walking One Makes The Road, And

The Unpublished Manuscript Is Like An Uncon-fessed Sin That Festers In The Soul, Corrupting And Contaminating It.

What Have You Done With The Garden That Was Entrusted To You?

My Soul Is Not Asleep. It Is Awake, Wide Awake. It Neither Sleeps Nor Dreams, But Watches, Its Eyes Wide Open Far-off Things, And Listens At The Shores Of The Great Silence.

The Afternoon Is Bright, With Spring In The Air, A Mild March Afternoon, With The Breath Of April Stirring, I Am Alone In The Quiet Patio Looking For Some Old Untried Illusion - Some Shadow On The Whiteness Of The Wall Some Memory Asleep On The Stone Rim Of The Fountain, Perhaps In The Air The Light Swish Of Some Trailing Gown.

Only A Fool Thinks Price And Value Are The Same.