Write. Write until it stops hurting.
We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.
When you possess light within, you see it externally.
Life is a full circle, widening until it joins the circle motions of the infinite.
We love best those who are, or act for us, a self we do not wish to be or act out.
I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy.