hbox to hsize {parindent=0ptobeylines
vbox{Mr. Recipient
Recipient's address}
hfil
vbox{Sender
Sender's address}}

In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the
boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree
is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young
falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman.  The sun
tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing,
performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings.  In the mango
grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when
his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father,
the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked.  For a long time,
Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men,
practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of
reflection, the service of meditation.  He already knew how to speak the
Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while
inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all
the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of
the clear-thinking spirit.  He already knew to feel Atman in the depths
of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.

bye