Look At The Sky. Ask Yourselves: Has

The Tender Friendships One Gives Up, On Parting, Leave Their Bite On The Heart, But Also A Curious Feeling Of A Treasure Somewhere Buried.

No Destiny Attacks Us From Outside. But, Within Him, Man Bears His Fate And There Comes A Moment When He Knows Himself Vulnerable; And Then, As In A Vertigo, Blunder Upon Blunder Lures Him.

We Are All Youthful Barbarians, And Only Our New Toys Bring Us Excitement. That Has Been The Sole Purpose Of Our Flights. This One Flies Higher, That One Faster. But Now We Will Make Ourselves At Home. We Will Forget The Machine, The Tool. It Is No Longer Complex; It Does What It Is Supposed To Do, Unnoticed. And Through This Tool We Will Find Again The Old Nature, The Nature Of The Gardener, The Navigator, The Poet.

Sometimes, There Is No Harm In Putting Off A Piece Of Work Until Another Day.

I'll Look As If I'm Dead, And That Won't Be True.' I Said Nothing. 'you Understand. It's Too Far. I Can't Take This Body With Me. It's Too Heavy.' I Said Nothing. 'but It'll Be Like An Old Abandoned Shell. There's Nothing Sad About An Old Shell...' I Said Nothing. 'it'll Be Nice, You Know. I'll Be Looking At The Stars, Too. All The Stars Will Be Wells With A Rusty Pulley. All The Stars Will Pour Out Water For Me To Drink...' I Said Nothing. 'and It'll Be Fun! You'll Have Five-hundred Million Little Bells; I'll Have Five-hundred Million Springs Of Fresh Water...' And He, Too, Said Nothing More.