The stench of the trail of Ego in our History. It is ego - ego, the fountain cry, origin, sole source of war.

I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.

Chance works for us when we are good captains.

Faith works miracles. At least it allows time for them.

We are betrayed by what is false within

We never know what's in us till we stand by ourselves.

Observation is the most enduring of the pleasures of life.