I think words operate like musical notes that the eyeball hears.

Strip back the beliefs pasted on by governesses, schools, and states, you find indelible truths at one's core.

As long as you can Houdini your way out of the Sisyphean constraints then originality happens.

We are only what we know, and I wished to be so much more than I was, sorely.

As many truths as men. Occasionally, I glimpse a truer Truth, hiding in imperfect simulacrums of itself, but as I approach, it bestirs itself & moves deeper into the thorny swamp of dissent.

What is any ocean but a multitude of drops?

The mind has a mind of its own. It shows us pictures. Pictures of the past and the might-one-day-be. This mind's mind exerts its own will, too, and has its own voice.