on the possibility of a full moon.
The sun often rises on my side of the street.
Every morning, in fact.
But. I. Shut. It. Out.
With my blinds, of course. Not my soul.
How could anyone even do that?
What is man without God?
The moon without the sun: a black sphere against and engulfed by an equally black canvas.
Nothing.
Every morning, in fact.
But. I. Shut. It. Out.
With my blinds, of course. Not my soul.
How could anyone even do that?
What is man without God?
The moon without the sun: a black sphere against and engulfed by an equally black canvas.
Nothing.