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“Who are you, Martin Eden? he demanded of himself in the looking-glass, that night when he got back to his room. He gazed at himself long and curiously. Who are you? What are you? Where do you belong? » – Jack London (Martin Eden)

You belong with the legions of toil that must grub in the dirt for the sixpence. You belong with the legions that dare lift their eyes to contemplate the moon to substitute food for the dance of imagination. You belong with the vulgar and with the spirited being what carries the tinge of heaven in a smile.

You belong with all that is hard, low and unbeautiful, yet you dare live with the stars and make stardust trails. You belong by rights with the legions of strive, nevertheless in one corner of the mind there is an inverted eye that yearns for the lunarian shape-shifting beauty.

You…

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