None of us have much idea where we are. Perhaps all our lives are too concerned with where, and not enough with who.

Because I have dreams and in those dreams I see the stars

If it means my death, I don't care, because even death will be a sort of freedom.

All my years to this moment All my roads to this wall. All my words to this silence All my pride to this fall. -Songs of Sapphique

He was her enemy, and she hated him because she could not hate him enough.

When you draw, you copy the world don't you? You remake it on paper, but it isn't the same. It's yours. No one else could have created it just like that. When I make poems, I use the words we all use, but the order and the sound create a new power. This wood is someone's creation. We stumble through it's tendrils, as if we're crawling through the synapses of his mind.

And what would they be scared of? There's nothing to fear in a perfect world, is there?