In This World, Either You're Virtuous Or

Independence Is The Recognition Of The Fact That Yours Is The Responsibility Of Judgement And Nothing Can Help You Escape It - That No Substitute Can Do Your Thinking, As No Pinch-hitter Can Live Your Life.

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.

It Is A Sin To Write This.

What You Think Is An Illusion Created By Your Glands, Your Emotions And, In The Last Analysis, By The Content Of Your Stomach. That Gray Matter You're So Proud Of Is Like A Mirror In An Amusement Park Which Transmits To You Nothing But Distorted Signals From Reality Forever Beyond Your Grasp.

I Shall Choose Friends Among Men, But Neither Slaves Nor Masters. And I Shall Choose Only Such As Please Me, And Them I Shall Love And Respect, But Neither Command Nor Obey. And We Shall Join Our Hands When We Wish, Or Walk Alone When We So Desire.