It's there... and then it's not, The shadow of the sun. You can neither control the moment it appears, Nor the way it runs to hide itself, Mingling in the shadow of dusk... Until it simply just disappears.

Our fears and worries, our ambitions make something of us, don't they? The fact is, everything makes something of us because there's something in us that makes of it what is does, which is the real meaning of the old expression: a tempest in a teapot.

Why can't we shake our sense of being incomplete in spite of all we've acquired? After all, what hope is there of finding in the world situated around us something that can answer our longing to be whole, to be one with life, when this need itself comes into us from a world above us? Small wonder we search in vain! It is a divine discontent that drives us in our search for...