The heart of what I give you in these messages is not the message itself. What you extract from My letters may be succinct and wonderful, but it is only a thimbleful of what I give you. I pour down love upon you and a certain lyric wisdom far more than any words you extract.

You think too much. You have heard that before. You remember too much as well. You bank on your memories. You store them and count them out like ten-dollar bills. You amass them, and think they hold you together. Memories are just strings from the past. They are a decoration. They are not the substance of you. They are immaterial to you. But you think somehow that they add up to you, are equivalent, are revealing, are important.