i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my uncle Sol and started a worm farm)

time is a tree (this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough

it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than thesquarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings; mostpeople are snobs.

Whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

The sensual mysticism of entire vertical being.

Because you aren't afraid to kiss the dirt (and consequently dare to climb the sky)

suppose Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.