It ain't whatcha write, it's the way atcha write it.

February dawn -- frost on the path Where I paced all winter.

His friends said, "Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?" and Bull said, "I like it because it's ugly." All his life was in that line.

They have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there - and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see.

Ah, if I could realize, if I could forget myself and devote my meditations to the freeing, the awakening and the blessedness of all living creatures everywhere I'd realize what there is, is ecstasy.

Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.

And I will die, and you will die, and we all will die, and even the stars will fade out one after another in time.