Somewhere along the line, the pearl would be handed to me.

Write in recollection and amazement for yourself.

Walking on water wasn't built in a day.

The first sip [of tea] is joy, the second is gladness, the third is serenity, the fourth is madness, the fifth is ecstasy.

They were like the man with the dungeon stone and gloom, rising from the underground, the sordid hipsters of America, a new beat generation that I was slowly joining.

Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.

I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else?