When your dreams tire, they go underground and out of kindness that's where they stay.

Unseasonable kindness gets no thanks.

But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life.

Only the dreamer shall understand realities, though in truth his dreaming must be not out of proportion to his waking.

Today a reader, tomorrow a leader.

If you have knowledge, let others light their candles in it.