I Think. I Am. I Will.

The Leaves Streamed Down, Trembling In The Sun. They Were Not Green, Only A Few, Scattered Through The Torrent, Stood Out In Single Drops Of Green So Bright And Pure That It Hurt The Eyes; The Rest Were Not A Color, But A Light, The Substance Of Fire On Metal, Living Sparks Without Edges. And It Looked As If The Forest Were A Spread Of Light Boiling Slowly To Produce This Color, The Green Rising In Small Bubbles, The Condensed Essence Of Spring. The Trees Met, Blending Over The Road And The Spots Of Sun On The Ground Moved With The Shifting Of The Branches, Like A Conscious Caress.

It Is A Free Market That Makes Monopolies Impossible.

When One Acts On Pity Against Justice, It Is The Good Whom One Punishes For The Sake Of The Evil; When One Saves The Guilty From Suffering, It Is The Innocent Whom One Forces To Suffer. There Is No Escape From Justice, Nothing Can Be Unearned And Unpaid For In The Universe, Neither In Matter Nor In Spirit—and If The Guilty Do Not Pay, Then The Innocent Have To Pay It.

All Work Is An Act Of Philosophy.

She Thought: At This Moment, The Glass Stem Between His Fingers Feels Just Like The One Between Mine. We Have This Much In Common.