Silence is the only language god speaks.

The plain truth is we are going to die. Here I am, a teeny spec surrounded by boundless space and time, arguing with the whole of creation, shaking my fist, sputtering, growing even eloquent at times, and then-poof! I am gone. Swept off once and for all. I think that is very, very funny.

The stars know everything, So we try to read their minds. As distant as they are, We choose to whisper in their presence.

Here is something we can all count on. Sooner or later our tribe always comes to ask us to agree to murder.

Found objects, chance creations, ready-mades (mass-produced items promoted into art objects, such as Duchamp's "Fountain"-urinal as sculpture) abolish the separation between art and life. The commonplace is miraculous if rightly seen.

The highest levels of consciousness are wordless.

If the sky falls they shall have clouds for supper.