Even now$$$ I am perhaps not speaking from myself: but from some character in whose soul I now live.

Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home$$$ but$$$ most important$$$ it finds homes for us everywhere.

You have your brush$$$ you have your colors$$$ you paint the paradise$$$ then in you go.

You have your brush$$$ you have your colors$$$ you paint the paradise$$$ then in you go.

You have your brush$$$ you have your colors$$$ you paint the paradise$$$ then in you go.

From the crooked timber of humanity$$$ a straight board cannot be hewn.

Without man and his potential for moral progress$$$ the whole of reality would be a mere wilderness$$$ a thing in vain$$$ and have no final purpose.

Nothing is divine but what is agreeable to reason.

Please consider me a dream.

I am free and that is why I am lost.