A Dream Is A Creation Of The

The Slowness Of Time, For A Man Who Knows Nothing Will Happen, Is Brutal.

The World, The Future, Is Now Within You As Your Past, As Experience, Skill In Technique, And The Rich, Everlasting Mystery Is Found To Be Childish You That, At The Time, You Made No Effort To Possess.

Traveling Is A Brutality. It Forces You To Trust Strangers And To Lose Sight Of All That Familiar Comfort Of Home And Friends. You Are Constantly Off Balance. Nothing Is Yours Except The Essential Things: Air, Sleep, Dreams, Sea, The Sky - All Things Tending Towards The Eternal Or What We Imagine Of It.

At Great Periods You Have Always Felt, Deep Within You, The Temptation To Commit Suicide. You Gave Yourself To It, Breached Your Own Defenses. You Were A Child. The Idea Of Suicide Was A Protest Against Life; By Dying, You Would Escape This Longing For Death.

Literature Is A Defense Against The Attacks Of Life. It Says To Life: You Can't Deceive Me. I Know Your Habits, Foresee And Enjoy Watching All Your Reactions, And Steal Your Secret By Involving You In Cunning Obstructions That Halt Your Normal Flow.