In the midst of silence a hidden word was spoken to me. Where is this Silence, and where is the place in which this word is spoken? It is in the purest that the soul can produce, in her noblest part, in the ground, even the Being of the Soul.
There is no art to wandering. If I have a destination, a plan -- and objective -- I've lost the ability to find serendipity... I search for the Holy Grail of particularity and miss the chalice freely offered, filled full and overwhelming.