Be Young Forever, Seasons Of The Earth.

A Weak Human Mercy Walks In The Corridors Of Hospitals And Is Like A Half-thawed Winter.

Language Is The Only Homeland.

We Have Become Indifferent To Content, And React, Not Even To Form, But To Technique, To Technical Efficiency Itself.

Leaves Glowing In The Sun, Zealous Hum Of Bumblebees, From Afar, From Somewhere Beyond The River, Echoes Of Lingering Voices And The Unhurried Sounds Of A Hammer Gave Joy Not Only To Me. Before The Five Senses Were Opened, And Earlier Than Any Beginning They Waited, Ready, For All Those Who Would Call Themselves Mortals, So That They Might Praise, As I Do, Life, That Is, Happiness.

What Is This Enigmatic Impulse That Does Not Allow One To Settle Down In The Achieved, The Finished? I Think It Is A Quest For Reality.