It Is Always Hard To Believe That

Electricity, The Peril The Wind Sings To In The Wires On A Gray Day.

Divisions Of The Kind Were Fashionable At That Time, And It Was So Easy To Stifle One's Need To Help By Deciding That Help Could Neither Be Accepted Nor Understood.

People Dread Silence Because It Is Transparent; Like Clear Water, Which Reveals Every Obstacle—the Used, The Dead, The Drowned, Silence Reveals The Cast-off Words And Thoughts Dropped In To Obscure Its Clear Stream. And When People Stare Too Close To Silence They Sometimes Face Their Own Reflections, Their Magnified Shadows In The Depths, And That Frightens Them. I Know; I Know.

The Sun Is All Love And Murder, Judgement, The Perpetual Raid Of Conscience, Paratrooping Light Which Opens Like A Snow-blossom In The Downward Drift Of Death. Wherever I Turn - The Golden Cymbals Of Judgement, The Summoning Of The Torturers Of Light.

Listening To Her, One Experienced A Deep Uneasiness As Of Having Avoided An Urgent Responsibility, Like Someone Who, Walking At Night Along The Banks Of A Stream, Catches A Glimpse In The Water Of A White Face Or A Moving Limb And Turns Quickly Away, Refusing To Help Or To Search For Help. We All See The Faces In The Water. We Smother Our Memory Of Them, Even Our Belief In Their Reality, And Become Calm People Of The World; Or We Can Neither Forget Or Help Them. Sometimes By A Trick Of Circumstances Or Dream Or A Hostile Neighborhood Of Light We See Our Own Face.