| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from A Horse's Tale by Mark Twain: in it, so that he can learn to do it himself.
"Every Saturday she hires little Injuns to garrison her fort; then
she lays siege to it, and makes military approaches by make-believe
trenches in make-believe night, and finally at make-believe dawn
she draws her sword and sounds the assault and takes it by storm.
It is for practice. And she has invented a bugle-call all by
herself, out of her own head, and it's a stirring one, and the
prettiest in the service. It's to call ME - it's never used for
anything else. She taught it to me, and told me what it says: 'IT
IS I, SOLDIER - COME!' and when those thrilling notes come floating
down the distance I hear them without fail, even if I am two miles
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Royalty Restored/London Under Charles II by J. Fitzgerald Molloy: arrogance of the impostor. He appeared in a silk gown and
cassock, a long scarf, a broad hat with satin band and rose, and
called himself a doctor of divinity. No man dared contradict or
oppose him, lest he should be denounced as a conniver of the
plot, and arrested as a traitor. "Whoever he pointed at was
taken up and committed," says North. "So that many people got
out of his way as from a blast, and glad they could prove their
last two years' conversation. The very breath of him was
pestilential, and if it brought not imprisonment, it surely
poisoned reputation." Sir John, speaking of him at the bishop's
dinner-table, says "he was blown up with the hopes of running
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from A Second Home by Honore de Balzac: neighboring houses; thus the stranger's lack of curiosity was not to
be accounted for by the presence of dangerous rivals; and Madame
Crochard was greatly piqued to see her "Black Gentleman" always lost
in thought, his eyes fixed on the ground, or straight before him, as
though he hoped to read the future in the fog of the Rue du
Tourniquet. However, one morning, about the middle of September,
Caroline Crochard's roguish face stood out so brightly against the
dark background of the room, looking so fresh among the belated
flowers and faded leaves that twined round the window-bars, the daily
scene was gay with such contrasts of light and shade, of pink and
white blending with the light material on which the pretty needlewoman
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