Everyone In The World Is Christ And

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.

There Is A Note That Comes Into The Human Voice By Which You May Know Real Weariness. It Comes When One Has Been Trying With All His Heart And Soul To Think His Way Along Some Difficult Road Of Thought. Of A Sudden He Finds Himself Unable To Go On. Something Within Him Stops. A Tiny Explosion Takes Place. He Bursts Into Words And Talks, Perhaps Foolishly. Little Side Currents Of His Nature He Didn't Know Were There Run Out And Get Themselves Expressed. It Is At Such Times That A Man Boasts, Uses Big Words, Makes A Fool Of Himself In General.

Friends You Have, People You Love, Die And Are Born Again.

It Was A Cold Day But The Sun Was Out And The Trees Were Like Great Bonfires Against Gray Distant Fields And Hills.

The Disease We All Have And That We Have To Fight Against All Our Lives Is ... The Disease Of Self.