Between our birth and death we may touch understanding, As a moth brushes a window with its wing

There may always be another reality to make fiction of the truth we think we've arrived at.

It is the individual man in his individual freedom who can mature with his warm spirit the unripe world.

One day I shall burst my bud of calm and blossom into hysteria.

In our plain defects we already know the brotherhood of man.

Life itself is the real and most miraculous miracle of all. If one had never before seen a human hand and were suddenly presented for the first time with this strange and wonderful thing, what a miracle, what a magnificently shocking and inexplicable and mysterious thing it would be.

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate