We live on the leash of our senses.

A self is a frightening thing to waste, it's the lens through which one's whole life is viewed, and few people are willing to part with it, in death, or even imaginatively, in art.

Violets smell like burnt sugar cubes that have been dipped in lemon and velvet.

Tranquillity hides in small spaces, and when found needs to be treasured, because you know it's a phantom that will slip away again.

Touch seems to be as essential as sunlight.

We live on the leash of our senses. There is no way in which to understand the world without first detecting it through the radar-net of our senses.

And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can't really share the enormity of our lives.