i suppose no man can violate his nature. a character is like an acrostic or alexandrian stanza; read it forward, backward, or across, it still spells the same thing. all we do is a reflection of who we are. in this pleasing contrite wood-life, which love allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect or retrospect, and, i cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though i mean it not, and see it not. my book should smell of pines and resound with the sound of bees. the swallow over my window should interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. we pass for what we are. character teachers above our wills. men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment.

this life is that tower which burns in those skies, we have to jump right out in time and land in the sea, darling now i rise again. so much is preparation so little is living, so much is imitation so little is character. let me be the eye to this cyclone, devour everything before me. this food they are eating is killing them. where there is no light there is only darkness

honey i love you so much that my words can never be enough, i thought it best to show you by coming to see you so together we can bow down and pray to beauty. darling i weep in your arms every need i have you satisfy so simple are your ways in this sea. show them what love can do let me move one great soul. to speak in the heart of one is to speak in the heart of many, the further i move away the closer she comes.