Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

We who love Him beheld Him with these our eyes which He made to see; and we touched Him with these our hands which He taught to reach forth.

We fear death, yet we long for slumber and beautiful dreams.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

You cannot lay remorse upon the innocent nor lift it from the heart of the guilty. Unbidden shall it call in the night, that men may wake and gaze upon themselves.

We live only to discover beauty. All else is a form of waiting

I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.