Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.
Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence
Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.
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