The wind does not dream of us; we are merely ghosts of even more ephemeral material than the breeze, and we pass through this atmosphere quicker than that; the wind dreams of faces of stone to carve, in a strange intelligence, by way of a million years of continual wear.
No matter what anyone tells you, you have a soul. Even if all things were explained, all the chemical reactions measured as to what causes fear and madness, joy and genius — even if all the molecules that made it up were accounted, to look out from behind these eyes will tell anyone that there will always be something inexplicable, ineffable about life.
In my seeing, God is a preposterous proposition that happens to be true. To follow that, God is love. Love is another preposterous propositions that happens to be true. Then there comes that love is life. Life is that third preposterous proposition, which of the three is the only one that can be proved to exist — and even that is sketchy. I will say, if you cannot believe in God, at least believe in love. If you cannot believe in love, believe in life: the wind may yet remember you.
[let it be]
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