What, you are stepping westward?

Westward, ever westward.

At Parbar westward, four at the causeway, and two at Parbar.

Our Boeing 747 has been fleeing westward from darkened California, racing across the Pacific toward the sun, the incandescent eye of God, but slowly, three hours later than West Coast time, twilight gathers outside, veil upon lilac veil.

The past is a stepping stone, not a millstone.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.