A Thought Will Color A

The Mystery Of Life--its Inexplicability, Beauty, Cruelty, Tenderness, Folly . . . Has Occupied The Greater Part Of My Waking Thoughts; And In Reverence Or Rage Or Irony, As The Moment Or Situation Might Dictate, I Have Pondered And Even Demanded Of Cosmic Energy To Know Why.

Life Is Made For The Strong. There Is No Mercy In It For The Weak– None...such Is The Tragedy Of Desire.

Shakespeare, I Come!

Innate Sensuousness Rarely Has Any Desire For Accuracy, No Desire For Precise Information. It Basks In Sunshine, Bathes In Color, Dwells In A Sense Of The Impressive And The Gorgeous, And Rests There. Accuracy Is Not Necessary Except In The Case Of Aggressive, Acquisitive Natures, When It Manifests Itself In A Desire To Seize. True Controlling Sensuousness Cannot Be Manifested In The Most Active Dispositions, Nor Again In The Most Accurate.

Nature, Machine-like, Works Definitely And Heartlessly, If In The Main Beautifully. Hence, If We, As Individuals, Do Not Make This Dream Of A God Or What He Stands For Us Real In Our Thoughts And Deeds, Then He Is Not Real Or True.