You Cannot Plant An Acorn

One Man May Hit The Mark, Another Blunder; But Heed Not These Distinctions. Only From The Alliance Of The One, Working With And Through The Other, Are Great Things Born.

We Do Not Pray For Immortality, But Only Not To See Our Acts And All Things Stripped Suddenly Of All Their Meaning; For Then It Is The Utter Emptiness Of Everything Reveals Itself.

What Torments Me Is Not The Humps Nor Hollows Nor The Ugliness. It Is The Sight, A Little Bit In All These Men, Of Mozart Murdered.

So The Crew Fly On With No Thought That They Are In Motion. Like Night Over The Sea, They Are Very Far From The Earth, From Towns, From Trees. The Clock Ticks On. The Dials, The Radio Lamps, The Various Hands And Needles Go Though Their Invisible Alchemy. . . . And When The Hour Is At Hand The Pilot May Glue His Forehead To The Window With Perfect Assurance. Out Of Oblivion The Gold Has Been Smelted: There It Gleams In The Lights Of The Airport.

Man Is But A Network Of Relationships And These Alone Matter To Him.