Just like a milk has butter milk
Just like that God hide himself

For Butter milk we need heat milk
To find god we need to  meditate

He felt as though he were a prism, gathering up God’s love like white light and scattering it in all directions, and the sensation was nearly physical, as he caught and repeated as much of what everyone said to him as he could, soaking up the music and cadence, the pattern of phonemes on the fly, gravely accepting and repeating Askama’s quiet corrections when he got things wrong.

The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it.

Written By Woodrow Wilson

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