I don't want to be a passenger in my own life.

We live on the leash of our senses.

One of the keystones of romantic love - and also of the ecstatic religion practiced by mystics - is the powerful desire to become one with the beloved.

habit, a particularly insidious thug who chokes passion and smothers love. Habit puts us on autopilot.

Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.

On some summer days in New York City, the air hangs thickly visible, like the combined exhalations of eight million souls. Steam rising from vents underground makes you wonder if there isn't one giant sweat gland lodged beneath the city.

The senses don't just make sense of life in bold or subtle acts of clarity, they tear reality apart into vibrant morsels and reassemble them into a meaningful pattern.