My reasoning, if one can call it that, was inflamed by the scatter shot passions of youth and a literary diet overly rich in the works of Nietzshe, Kerouac, and John Menlove Edwards.

Mountains make poor receptacles for dreams.

The endless, agonizing recycling of what might have been, soon followed by a litany of rationalizations and self-deceptions as you struggle to reconcile the void between the person you want to be and the person you fear you are.

But now that I was finally here, standing on the summit of Mount Everest, I just couldn't summon the energy to care.

Don't settle down and sit in one place. Move around, be nomadic, make each day a new horizon.

Some people feel like they don't deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past.

You should own nothing except what you can carry on your back at a dead run.