Throughout The Centuries There Were Men Who

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.

What Whip Lashed Them To Their Knees In Shame And Submission? The Worship Of The Word "we.

He Never Felt Lonliness Except When He Was Happy.

I Agree That [marriage] Should Be Treated Like A Business Deal. But Every Business Deal Has To Have Its Own Terms And Its Own Kind Of Currency.

I Worship Individuals For Their Highest Possibilities As Individuals And I Loathe Humanity For Its Failure To Live Up To These Possibilities.