Let me remind you of the old maxim: people under suspicion are better moving than at rest, since at rest they may be sitting in the balance without knowing it, being weighed together with their sins.

People who walk across dark bridges, past saints,
with dim, small lights.
Clouds which move across gray skies
past churches
with towers darkened in the dusk.
One who leans against granite railing
gazing into the evening waters,
His hands resting on old stones.

A stair not worn hollow by footsteps is, regarded from its own point of view, only a boring something made of wood.

Books are a narcotic

In argument similes are like songs in love; they describe much, but prove nothing.

You may object that it is not a trial at all; you are quite right, for it is only a trial if I recognize it as such.