There Is No Road, The Road Is

Wanderer, Your Footsteps Are The Road, And Nothing More; Wanderer, There Is No Road, The Road Is Made By Walking. By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind One Sees The Path That Never Will Be Trod Again. Wanderer, There Is No Road-- Only Wakes Upon The Sea. Caminante, Son Tus Huellas El Camino, Y Nada Más; Caminante, No Hay Camino, Se Hace Camino Al Andar. Al Andar Se Hace Camino, Y Al Volver La Vista Atrás Se Ve La Senda Que Nunca Se Ha De Volver A Pisar. Caminante, No Hay Camino, Sino Estelas En La Mar.

Caminante, No Hay Camino, Se Hace Camino Al Andar. (walk, There Is No Path, The Path Is Made By Walking.)

Hell Is The Bloodcurdling Mansion Of Time, In Whose Profoundest Circle Satan Himself Waits, Winding A Gargantuan Watch In His Hand.

My Soul Is Not Asleep. It Is Awake, Wide Awake. It Neither Sleeps Nor Dreams, But Watches, Its Eyes Wide Open Far-off Things, And Listens At The Shores Of The Great Silence.

My Philosophy Is Fundamentally Sad, But I'm Not A Sad Man, And I Don't Believe I Sadden Anyone Else.