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Today's Stichomancy for Sergio Leone

The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Sportsman by Xenophon:

[30] i.e. Odysseus and Diomed. (S. 11, I confess, strikes me as somewhat in Xenophon's manner.) See "Mem." IV. ii. 33; "Apol." 26.

Menestheus,[31] through diligence and patient care, the outcome of the chase, so far overshot all men in love of toil that even the chiefs of Hellas must confess themselves inferior in the concerns of war save Nestor only; and Nestor, it is said,[32] excelled not but alone might rival him.

[31] For Menestheus, who led the Athenians against Troy, cf. Hom. "Il." ii. 552; iv. 327; Philostr. "Her." ii. 16; Paus. ii. 25. 6; i. 17. 6; Plut. "Thes." 32, 35.

[32] Or, "so runs the tale," e.g. in "The Catalogue." See "Il." ii.

The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Aeroplanes and Dirigibles of War by Frederick A. Talbot:

the cars within the hull, instead of outside the latter as had hitherto been the practice, while the three cars were placed more closely together than formerly. The motors were of an improved type, giving an aggregate output of 900 horse-power, and were divided into four separate units, housed in two engine-rooms, the front car being a replica in every detail of the navigating bridge of a warship.

This vessel was regarded as a distinct improvement upon the "L-I," although the latter could boast some great achievements. But her glory was short-lived. In the course of the Government trials, while some 900 feet aloft, the huge vessel suddenly

The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Rivers to the Sea by Sara Teasdale:

Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. Oh, beauty are you not enough?

RIVERS TO THE SEA

Why am I crying after love With youth, a singing voice and eyes To take earth's wonder with surprise? Why have I put off my pride, Why am I unsatisfied, I for whom the pensive night Binds her cloudy hair with light, I for whom all beauty burns