By Walking One Makes The Road, And

Travelers, There Is No Path, Paths Are Made By Walking.

The Truly Erotic Sensibility, In Evoking The Image Of Woman, Never Omits To Clothe It. The Robing And Disrobing: That Is The True Traffic Of Love.

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep? Have The Beehives Of My Dreams Stopped Working, The Waterwheel Of The Mind Run Dry, Scoops Turning Empty, Only Shadow Inside? No, My Heart Is Not Asleep. It Is Awake, Wide Awake. Not Asleep, Not Dreaming— Its Eyes Are Opened Wide Watching Distant Signals, Listening On The Rim Of Vast Silence

The Absence Of Vices Adds So Little To The Sum Of One's Virtues.

Avoid Pulpits, Platforms, Stages And Pedestals. Keep To The Hard Ground. It Is The Only Way You Can Judge Your Approximate Status As A Man.