The Quiet Sun...

I understand why the Quiet Sun will never, not even for seconds, let the heavens hide from the dark clouds... I take this as a sheltering of worlds remote from human existence. Can it be that the world of man is a projection of the ego, out of which grows the vanity of a lost existence — somewhere, always, a person meets his own image, as words, as a portrait, as painted flowers... we pluck them when we have occasion to declare a holiday, yet we do not feel that we are killing the life of that flower. We kill our own happiness of being freedom. We kill our own happiness of being life, given by the heart of the Quiet Sun... Life does not belong to lost souls; life is an instant of the creation of everything, but it is not an instant for taking life away.

> A5
> 122 pp.