Each day has a color, a smell.

Each spice has a special day to it. For turmeric it is Sunday, when light drips fat and butter-colored into the bins to be soaked up glowing, when you pray to the nine planets for love and luck.

A dream is a telegram from the hidden world...Only a fool or an illiterate person ignores it.

Each day has a color, a smell.

Above us our palace waits, the only one I've ever needed. Its walls are space, its floor is sky, its center everywhere. We rise; the shapes cluster around us in welcome, dissolving and forming again like fireflies in a summer evening.

But maybe as I get older, I begin to see beauty where I least expected it before.

A problem becomes a problem only if you believe it to be so. And often others see you as you see yourself.