All exiles carry a map within them that points the way homeward.

There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation on a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed; whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.

It's funny, how one can look back on a sorrow one thought one might well die of at the time, and know that one had not yet reckoned the tenth part of true grief.

I can see patterns in events, and behaviors; in mathematics, I follow slower

Those that yield are not always weak

But slight mistakes accumulate, and grow to gross errors if unchecked.

Stupid to speak of blame when the wills of the immortals are involved.