It's other people who make us wise, and I haven't known nearly enough.

When you are perfect, is there anywhere else to go?

Maybe there was no one way to define it. Maybe there were as many shades of love as the blues of the sky.

Pieces. A bit for someone here. A bit there. And sometimes they don't add up to anything whole. But you are so busy dancing. Delivering. You don't have time to notice. Or are afraid to notice. And then one day you have to look. And it's true. All of your pieces fill up other people's holes. But they don't fill your own.

I just think perfection and lasting through the ages is for Greek statues, not us mere humans.

Things I can feel. Hard. Soft. Rough. Smooth. But the inside kind of feel, it is all the same, like foggy mush. Is that the part of me that is still asleep? (9)

People will notice the beauty of what they usually ignore ~