I Am. I Think. I Will.

Kill Reverence And You've Killed The Hero In Man.

The Leaves Streamed Down, Trembling In The Sun. They Were Not Green, Only A Few, Scattered Through The Torrent, Stood Out In Single Drops Of Green So Bright And Pure That It Hurt The Eyes; The Rest Were Not A Color, But A Light, The Substance Of Fire On Metal, Living Sparks Without Edges. And It Looked As If The Forest Were A Spread Of Light Boiling Slowly To Produce This Color, The Green Rising In Small Bubbles, The Condensed Essence Of Spring. The Trees Met, Blending Over The Road And The Spots Of Sun On The Ground Moved With The Shifting Of The Branches, Like A Conscious Caress.

The Purpose Of Man's Life...is To Become An Abject Zombie Who Serves A Purpose He Does Not Know, For Reasons He Is Not To Question.

And He Said Her Name To Fill The Space Of Five Years.

That Love Is Reverence, And Worship, And Glory, And The Upward Glance. Not A Bandage For Dirty Sores. But They Don’t Know It. Those Who Speak Of Love Most Promiscuously Are The Ones Who’ve Never Felt It. They Make Some Sort Of Feeble Stew Out Of Sympathy, Compassion, Contempt, And General Indifference, And They Call It Love. Once You’ve Felt What It Means To Love As You And I Know It – The Total Passion For The Total Height – You’re Incapable Of Anything Less.