I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.

Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.

Countries are either mothers or fathers, and engender the emotional bristle secretly reserved for either sire.

My hand does the work and I dont have to think; in fact, were I to think, it would stop the flow. Its like a dam in the brain that bursts.

Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.

What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.

...people liking you or not liking you is an accident and is to do with them and not you. That goes for love too, only more so.