Every man is an island, as in Anadoris none but oneself may step the shores of his soul where one true self dwells. Our senses, that are occupied with this physical world, if not a mere delusion, provide us naught but a letters from one side of the universe to the other, and the islander that sent it know not if the one that receives it would ever know the language it was written.
Some men have, for a moment, the privilege of having God to accompany them. This is a mystery, it is vain to try to understand why some do and some not. This mysterious company is all one could ever wish from this worldly experience, for to wish to see another islander or to escape the island that was given to him is vanity.
It is mysterious to me how young I was when this was taught to me by images and by heart and how old I am now that I have finally been able to learn this in words.
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