The wind blows away old ideas; I am stripped bare. What grows in the wind will be rooted and have permanence.
I feel awake. Let this be no illusion.
Let these new ideas be real, dear Lord.
(Letter #2,142)
The wind blows away old ideas; I am stripped bare. What grows in the wind will be rooted and have permanence.
I feel awake. Let this be no illusion.
Let these new ideas be real, dear Lord.
(Letter #2,142)
