From far across the green hills, patchworked with misshapen dreams, came the vision of my dream carried by the wind. “I shall be,” and “We shall be.” Such are the beginnings of our pain.
There is nothing wrong with living, except the dying, and nothing wrong with dreaming, except the believing that all we are is being.
Now, on my hill are the stones of the dead and no wind blows. The far off hills are quiet and still, as am I.