Here I was at the end of America...no more land...and nowhere was nowhere to go but back

In my medicine cabinet, the winter fly has died of old age.

Geniuses can be scintillating and geniuses can be somber, but it's that inescapable sorrowful depth that shines through-originality.

It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.

I wished I could explain it to those I loved, my mother, to Japhy, but there just weren't any words to describe the nothingness and purity of it. "Is there a certain and definite teaching to be given to all living creatures?" was the question probably asked to beetle browed snowy Dipankara, and his answer was the roaring silence of the diamond.

One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls.

It was my dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one great red line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.