Each moment is a place you've never been.
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Every journey conceals another journey within its lines: the path not taken and the forgotten angle.
For every life we live, there are at least eight others we've gotten close to but may never know.
Though I have seen a great deal of the sights, traveled a number of the available paths, there are always corners that remain unexplored, doors that remain unopened.
There are chapters in every life which are seldom read and certainly not aloud.
