to wait in the vestibule of your mind while you care for lesser things.

I am an idea. I came once to Edison, and I found lodging for me, and the Wright brothers housed me; so did Jonas Salk. I do not need to dwell on a scroll; I am not usually housed on stationery. I need no library for my walls or publication for my dwelling place. I simply ask for a three-by-five card or even a scratch paper.

I did not flee to another, for I was meant for you. God sent me, designed to be used by you, to help others, but you never stopped long enough to let me in. I knocked at the door of meditation, but it was locked. I sought entrance at the door of prayer, but it never opened. Just the slightest opening and I would have entered, but you never stopped to think, so I could not enter your mind.

I am an idea. Oh, after I left, you sought me diligently, but I was gone forever, for you placed me in your memory instead of on a three-by-five card. I cost you nothing; in fact, I will pay you rent if you will lodge me, and I will even move in with others like me on the same card, and you need not pay attention to me until you are ready, but I WILL NOT live in your memory. I will flee unless you lodge me on any kind of paper or on a three-by-five card.

If I leave, I will not come again to you or to another, and the world will never know me or the contribution I could have made. I did not ask for a home with gilded edges or leather binding or fancy parchment or gold lettering. I did not ask to be typed or printed or engraved-- just to be scribbled was all that was necessary.