Dawn: When men of reason go to bed.
(July 24, 1842 - January 11, 1914)
Morning is the best of all times in the garden. The sun is not yet hot. Sweet vapors rise from the earth. Night dew clings to the soil and makes plants glisten. Birds call to one another. Bees are already at work.
The Breath becomes a stone; the stone, a plant; the plant, an animal; the animal, a man; the man, a spirit; and the spirit, a god.
Christian Nevell Bovee
It's not the same team that we've seen out here the last couple of weeks. I just don't know for what reason, (but) we just sort of laid an egg today.
What do we live for; if it is not to make life less difficult to each other?