Be lead by the present spirit of ideas in your wildest dreams. Their mysterious pull on your life is a singular summons sent with a divine invitation. Trust obey this guidance. In accepting your invitation--you step boldly into the blessing of fully being who you are created to be and the beauty for which you are designed to live. Expose the godliness you have hidden from yourself. Dare to believe in the deep knowing you have always known you are worthy enough of the light given to you so Shine

Why shouldnt I I demand silently. Why shouldnt I become a famous writer Like Norman Mailer. Or Philip Roth. And F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway and all those other men. Why cant I be like them I mean what is the point of becoming a writer if no one reads what youve writtenDamn Viktor Greene and The New School. Why do I have to keep proving myself all of the time Why cant I be like Lil with everyone praising and encouraging me Or Rainbow with her sense of entitlement. I bet Viktor Greene never asked Rainbow why she wanted to be a writer.Or what if-I wince-Viktor Greene is right Im not a writer after all.

To succeed in everything we do we must have a desire to dream of things some would think are impossible.

After dessert we sipped on strong cups of tea one of the luxuries we can afford to take for granted here in the trade routes.Delightful she said. If only for a little cream.Dont speak to me of cream Captain. I dream about milk at least twice a week. I run naked with milk running in rivulets from the corners of my mouth. I even miss humble parsley--zounds how Ive taken that weed for granted And butter Ill not describe my butter dreams theyre too depraved.Mabbot chuckled. We must leave something for dreams.

And if only fate would have sent him repentance - burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep that repentance the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging and drowning

I wanted life thats comfortable enough for me my ambitions and love.

We grow from our dreams.

Then he dozed off to sleep and to dream dreams that for madness and audacity rivalled those of poppy-eaters