In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.

I am on the hunt for constructions. I come into a room and find them whitely merging in a corner.

If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skull, why then do we read it?

Start with what is right rather than what is acceptable.

The true way goes over a line that, rather than spanning heights, is hardly above the ground. It appears more decidedly to make one trip than to be walked along.

Martyrs do not underrate the body, they allow it to be elevated on the cross. In this they are at one with their antagonists.

A first sign of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die.