The fate that condemns or saves one sooner or later often condemns or saves another.

A man sitting monkey-like on the rooftop of his brain is due the applause such feats earn him.

The act of writing itself is much like the construction of a mirror made of words. Looking at certain illuminated corners of or cracks within the mirror, the author can see fragments of an objective reality that comprise the physical universe, social communities, political dynamics, and other facets of human existence. Looking in certain other corners of the same mirror, he or she may experience glimpses of a True Self sheltered deftly behind a mask of public proprieties.

Hope drowned in shadows emerges fiercely splendid–– boldly angelic.

Trayvon Martin, at the most, seems only to have been guilty of being himself.

As painful as life can be at times for people all over the world there is some component of existence, or nonexistence perhaps, operating to implement a balance and give us an opportunity to turn the horrors we've forced upon each other into something more conducive to sustaining at least minimal degrees of sanity and love.

At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.