There Is No Way; We Make The

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?

Beware Of The Community In Which Blasphemy Does Not Exist: Underneath, Atheism Runs Rampant.

My Philosophy Is Fundamentally Sad, But I’m Not A Sad Man, And I Don’t Believe I Sadden Anyone Else. In Other Words, The Fact That I Don’t Put My Philosophy Into Practice Saves Me From Its Evil Spell, Or, Rather, My Faith In The Human Race Is Stronger Then My Intellectual Analysis Of It; There Lies The Fountain Of Youth In Which My Heart Is Continually Bathing.

The Deepest Words Of The Wise Man Teach Us The Same As The Whistle Of The Wind When It Blows Or The Sound Of The Water When It Is Flowing.

Wanderer, Your Footsteps Are The Road, And Nothing More; Wanderer, There Is No Road, The Road Is Made By Walking. By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind One Sees The Path. . .