It is indestructible, because it is in the fibre of my life.

It has nothing to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune or misfortune, or shame or happiness, or sin or holiness.

When it becomes part of us, it must go on in one form or another, but it cannot die.

It lives in breath and song and thought and work and words.

That is the wonder of it, the pity of it, and the joy of it.