I know that human beings are capable of anything.

We are living in enchanted time. With our spirits right.

Beware of the stories you read or tell; subtly, at night, beneath the waters of consciousness, they are altering your world.

We have fallen into this very mean description of humanity. Naturalism in fiction is too reductive in its definition of human beings.

Only those who truly love and who are truly strong can sustain their lives as a dream. You dwell in your own enchantment. Life throws stones at you, but your love and your dream change those stones into the flowers of discovery. Even if you lose, or are defeated by things, your triumph will always be exemplary. And if no one knows it, then there are places that do. People like you enrich the dreams of the worlds, and it is dreams that create history. People like you are unknowing transformers of things, protected by your own fairy-tale, by love.

If we could be pure dancers in spirit we would never be afraid to love, and we would love with strength and wisdom.

What hope is there for individual reality or authenticity when the forces of violence and orthodoxy, the earthly powers of guns and bombs and manipulated public opinion make it impossible for us to be authentic and fulfilled human beings? The only hope is in the creation of alternative values, alternative realities. The only hope is in daring to redream one's place in the world - a beautiful act of imagination, and a sustained act of self becoming. Which is to say that in some way or another we breach and confound the accepted frontiers of things.