And what are we all doing except trying to utter our dreams? Some by writing, some by paint, others by music, others by business, fact, achievement, moulding dream-clay into images of success, other by passion or profligacy, or religion or what not--we're all at it, endeavoring to make real that wonderful half-glimpsed thought.
Religion calls it goodness, and art calls it beauty, and science calls it truth. But whatever it is we want it, as we want nothing else in this world, as we want not food nor finery. We become great for it. We ruin and lose ourselves for it. It is the price of life.
Dreams. Impotence and regret that we cannot utter them.