One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.

I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real

This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.

Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.

Through all the windows I only see infinity.

Explanation is not half as strong as experience but experience is not half as strong as experience and understanding

Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.