I am at the last of my travels. I think about it and say, it can’t be, if I’m at the sea shore with the sun in my face, and hope in my heart. But one day Ignatius will take himself a trip on a white charger, that will fly off and never stop. If it does stop, it’s dead. Death does exist. There can’t be birth, if there is no death. But I’m happy, that I was born into a world that was so big that it’s always getting smaller. And there’s no doubt that other bigger worlds will be found over the centuries, more beautiful than this one. Peopled by men more intelligent, and women even more beautiful. Tomorrow, were you to meet me, you’d say: Ignatius you were right, and life’s getting better than before.
Without doing anything a lion is a lion: but hapless man must brave death, to have the honor of being compared with that animal, strong, without limit. Nourished by the soaring thoughts of an afflicted soul, if one reaches an apex. A grand prize awaits. Then it is said you truly fly like an eagle. Write a sublime poem, that sings in silken rhyme of your innermost intense feelings, and they’ll say you sing like a nightingale. What must a man do to not be likened to an animal? Can he simply do nothing? Without feeling anxious or troubled? People would then take him for a jackass.
My dear friend, what can I say I’ve always been under the impression the moon and all the constellations are useless when stacked up against the sun. The sun is made in such a way that it provides warmth, thank God, so the people are rejuvenated, but the moon warms nothing! Wait a minute. What you say is right the sun wins out in that case. But, if you think about light, you’re way off base. The moon comes out when it’s pitch black, so I save on oil for lighting, but the sun rises at daybreak; saving me nothing?
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