A blank field, covered in snow, ready for the trails I will blaze. Such pride as I stamp along my path, unmindful of what lies below the snow.
The meadow already teems with life and activity as I plow through, insensate.
I think the pages of the day blank, ready for my writing. But I hold in my hands an already-writ book.
What, then, do I write? If I am to read, let me also be the author of a loving response.
I am the dweller, not the builder.
(Letter #2,251)
