All the things we achieve are things we have first of all imagined.
Silence is a form of communication. Speech divides us.
I might grow old in Brisbane, but I would never grow up.
What else is death but the refusal any longer to grow and suffer change?
Now that spring is no longer to be recognised in blossoms or in new leaves on trees, I must look for it in myself. I feel the ice of myself cracking. I feel myself loosen and flow again, reflecting the world. That is what spring means.
Words his soul danced to.