To Be A Man Is, Precisely, To

He Who Would Travel Happy Must Travel Lite.

Nobody Grasped You By The Shoulder While There Was Still Time. Now The Clay Of Which You Were Shaped Has Dried And Hardened, And Naught In You Will Ever Awaken The Sleeping Musician, The Poet, The Asronomer That Possibly Inhabited You In The Beginning.

We Must Not Subject Him Who Creates To The Desires Of The Multitude. It Is, Rather, His Creation That Must Become The Multitude's Desire.

What He Had Yearned To Embrace Was Not The Flesh But A Down Spirit, A Spark, The Impalpable Angel That Inhabits The Flesh.

One Only Really Sees With The Heart.