Secrets affect you more than you’d think. You lie to keep them hidden. You steer talk away from them. You worry someone’ll discover yours and tell the world. You think you are in charge of the secret, but isn’t it the secret who’s actually using you?
This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.
These jokes the world plays, they're not funny at all.
Wars are never cured, they just go into remission for a few years.
The mind abhors a vacancy & is wont to people it with phantoms.
I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so.