If One Is A Greyhound, Why Try

Another Little Drink Wouldn't Do Us Any Harm.

Winter Is The Time For Comfort, For Good Food And Warmth, For The Touch Of A Friendly Hand And For A Talk Beside The Fire: It Is The Time For Home. It Is No Season In Which To Wander The World As If One Were The Wind Blowing Aimlessly Along The Streets Without A Place To Rest, Without Food, And Without Time Meaning Anything To One, Just As Time Means Nothing To The Wind.

Tall Windows Show Infinity; And, Hard Reality, The Candles Weep And Pry And Dance Like Lives Mocked At By Chance. The Rooms Are Vast As Sleep Within; When Once I Ventured In, Chill Silence, Like A Surging Sea, Slowly Enveloped Me.

I Have Taken This Step Because I Want The Discipline, The Fire And The Authority Of The Church. I Am Hopelessly Unworthy Of It, But I Hope To Become Worthy.

What An Artist Is For Is To Tell Us What We See But Do Not Know That We See.