Let him become a fool that he may become wise. Yes, Corinthians, yes. Today I plucked a flower in my imagination, a pansy, the flower of thought. I pulled this flower from a bed of thoughts, a sea of ideas. One small flower, the fool’s token, just a small part of a prayer.
Meantime I walked down the road in winter, snow on the branches of the trees, the houses buttoned up like old men. I carried my flower of thought in my gloved hand. Yes, I have had a dark life–my drunken mother, largely absent father, a disability, the assorted effects of misperception, never having fully understood people. When I was a child they beat me up. When I was a young man they said I didn’t belong among the sighted people. But those were not my mistakes, my negligences. I went on walking in the snow. I learned to love my darknesses. The old king of the birches told me long ago to stop feeling sorry for myself. It is easy enough to walk with the flower of a broken thought on a cold morning, yes, Corinthians.
Planet of the Blind 