It was a perfect night for a train. The occasional whistle told Louis of all the farewells he had ever known.

The little bee returns with evening's gloom, To join her comrades in the braided hive, Where, housed beside their might honey-comb, They dream their polity shall long survive.

The rainbow bursts like magic on mine eyes! In hues of ancient promise there imprest.

When the whistle blew and the call stretched thin across the night, one had to believe that any journey could be sweet to the soul.

No one here likes a wet dog.

God is challenging us and each one of us has to decide to personally take up this challenge

It was typical of the American to identify the one unfinished strand.

A book is a door, you know. Always and forever. A book is a door into another place and another heart and another world.

If it is important do it everyday

War is the most readily available form of chaos.

You are a fluid metaphor for existence. You are your own death and your own rebirth. Here is forever. It never changes. We bring perpetual oblivion until we change the world.

I want to undo this. To make it right. But I have no idea how. I don't seem to know how to open up to people without getting the door slammed in my face. So I do nothing.

Militarism. . . is the chief bulwark of capitalism. When it is that militarism is undermined, capitalism will fail.

It is not sufficient to have compassion only for those who are cute.