The Soul Exceeds Its Circumstances.

I Was Left Behind With The Immensity Of Existing Things. A Sponge, Suffering Because It Cannot Saturate Itself; A River, Suffering Because Reflections Of Clouds And Trees Are Not Clouds And Trees.

Not That I Want To Be A God Or A Hero. Just To Change Into A Tree, Grow For Ages, Not Hurt Anyone.

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.

The Death Of A Man Is Like The Fall Of A Mighty Nation That Had Valiant Armies, Captains, And Prophets, And Wealthy Ports And Ships All Over The Seas.

Grow Your Tree Of Falsehood From A Small Grain Of Truth.