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Today's Stichomancy for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Soul of the Far East by Percival Lowell:

there is no part of them too small or too great to be excluded from Far Oriental affection. And of the two "drawing-rooms" of the Mikado held every year, in April and November, both are garden-parties: the one given at the time and with the title of "the cherry blossoms," and the other of "the chrysanthemum."

These same tree flowers deserve more than a passing notice, not simply because of their amazing beauty, which would arrest attention anywhere, but for the national attitude toward them. For no better example of the Japanese passion for nature could well be cited. If the anniversaries of people are slightingly treated in the land of the sunrise, the same cannot be said of plants. The yearly

The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum:

"The yellow bricks are not moving."

"But the whole road is," answered Ojo.

"True; quite true," agreed the Shaggy Man. "I know all about the tricks of this road, but I have been thinking of something else and didn't realize where we were."

"It will carry us back to where we started from," predicted Ojo, beginning to be nervous.

"No," replied the Shaggy Man; "it won't do that, for I know a trick to beat this tricky road. I've traveled this way before, you know. Turn


The Patchwork Girl of Oz
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Poems of William Blake by William Blake:

I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lillys leaf; Ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep: Is this a Worm? I see they lay helpless & naked: weeping And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles.

The Clod of Clay heard the Worms voice & rais'd her pitying head: She bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald In milky fondness, then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes

O beauty of the vales of Har, we live not for ourselves, Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed: My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,

But he that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head


Poems of William Blake