One May Not Reach The Dawn Save

He Who Passes Not His Days In The Realm Of Dreams Is The Slave Of The Days.

There Must Be Something Strangely Sacred About Salt. It Is In Our Tears And In The Sea.

And You Would Accept The Seasons Of Your Heart Just As You Have Always Accepted That Seasons Pass Over Your Fields And You Would Watch With Serenity Through The Winters Of Your Grief.

You Cannot Lay Remorse Upon The Innocent Nor Lift It From The Heart Of The Guilty. Unbidden Shall It Call In The Night, That Men May Wake And Gaze Upon Themselves.

For That Which Is Boundless In You Abides In The Mansion Of The Sky, Whose Door Is The Morning Mist, And Whose Windows Are The Songs And The Silences Of Night.