I Still Fall For Your Everyday.

Charity Never Humiliated Him Who Profited From It, Nor Ever Bound Him By The Chains Of Gratitude, Since It Was Not To Him But To God That The Gift Was Made.

The One Thing That Matters Is The Effort. It Continues, Whereas The End To Be Attained Is But An Illusion Of The Climber, As He Fares On And On From Crest To Crest; And Once The Goal Is Reached It Has No Meaning.

The Job Has Its Grandeurs, Yes. There Is The Exultation Of Arriving Safely After A Storm, The Joy Of Gliding Down Out Of The Darkness Of Night Or Tempest Toward A Sun-drenched Alicante Or Santiago; There Is The Swelling Sense Of Returning To Repossess One's Place In Life, In The Miraculous Garden Of Earth, Where Are Trees And Women And, Down By The Harbor, Friendly Little Bars. When He Has Throttled His Engine And Is Banking Into The Airport, Leaving The Somber Cloud Masses Behind, What Pilot Does Not Break Into Song?

When One Is Building A Ship, One Does Not Begin With Gathering Timber And Cutting Planks, But Rather By Arousing In People The Yearning For The Great Wide Sea.

I Still Fall For Your Everyday.