| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The White Moll by Frank L. Packard: "Now, give me back that purse, please. Instantly!" The man,
already retreating into the alleyway, paused to fling back a
jeering laugh.
"Say, youse've got yer nerve, ain't youse!"
The girl turned her head so that the rays of the street lamp, faint
as they were, fell full upon her, disclosing a sweet, oval face,
out of which the dark eyes gazed steadily at the man.
And suddenly the man leaned forward, staring for an instant, and
then his hand went awkwardly to touch his cap.
"De White Moll!" he mumbled deferentially. He pulled the peak of
his cap down over his eyes in a sort of shame-faced way, as though
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Philebus by Plato: men by the hands of a new Prometheus, and therewith a blaze of light; and
the ancients, who were our betters and nearer the gods than we are, handed
down the tradition, that whatever things are said to be are composed of one
and many, and have the finite and infinite implanted in them: seeing,
then, that such is the order of the world, we too ought in every enquiry to
begin by laying down one idea of that which is the subject of enquiry; this
unity we shall find in everything. Having found it, we may next proceed to
look for two, if there be two, or, if not, then for three or some other
number, subdividing each of these units, until at last the unity with which
we began is seen not only to be one and many and infinite, but also a
definite number; the infinite must not be suffered to approach the many
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson: sometimes go out and bathe in the river before lunch, twelve. In
the afternoon I generally work again, now alone drafting, now with
Belle dictating. Dinner is at six, and I am often in bed by eight.
This is supposing me to stay at home. But I must often be away,
sometimes all day long, sometimes till twelve, one, or two at
night, when you might see me coming home to the sleeping house,
sometimes in a trackless darkness, sometimes with a glorious tropic
moon, everything drenched with dew - unsaddling and creeping to
bed; and you would no longer be surprised that I live out in this
country, and not in Bournemouth - in bed.
My great recent interruptions have (as you know) come from
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