My Dreams Are A Stupid Refuge, Like

I Read And Am Liberated. I Acquire Objectivity. I Cease Being Myself And So Scattered. And What I Read, Instead Of Being Like A Nearly Invisible Suit That Sometimes Oppresses Me, Is The External World’s Tremendous And Remarkable Clarity, The Sun That Sees Everyone, The Moon That Splotches The Still Earth With Shadows, The Wide Expanses That End In The Sea, The Blackly Solid Trees Whose Tops Greenly Wave, The Steady Peace Of Ponds On Farms, The Terraced Slopes With Their Paths Overgrown By Grape-vines.

God Wills, Man Dreams, The Work Is Born.

Having Touched Christ's Feet Is Not An Excuse For Punctuation Mistakes.

The Slope Takes You To The Windmill, But Effort Takes You Nowhere.

The Human Soul Is An Abyss