Under All That We Think, Lives All

By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind Sees The Path

In Order To Write Poetry, You Must First Invent A Poet Who Will Write It.

The Unpublished Manuscript Is Like An Uncon-fessed Sin That Festers In The Soul, Corrupting And Contaminating It.

The Wind, One Brilliant Day, Called To My Soul With An Odor Of Jasmine. "in Return For The Odor Of My Jasmine, I'd Like All The Odor Of Your Roses." "i Have No Roses; All The Flowers In My Garden Are Dead." "well Then, I'll Take The Withered Petals And The Yellow Leaves And The Waters Of The Fountain." The Wind Left. And I Wept. And I Said To Myself: "what Have You Done With The Garden That Was Entrusted To You?

I Love Jesus, Who Said To Us: Heaven And Earth Will Pass Away. When Heaven And Earth Have Passed Away, My Word Will Remain. What Was Your Word, Jesus? Love? Forgiveness? Affection? All Your Words Were One Word: Wakeup.