We are able to laugh when we achieve detachment, if only for a moment.

Words are more powerful than perhaps anyone suspects, and once deeply engraved in a child's mind, they are not easily eradicated.

When we admit our vulnerability, we include others. If we deny it, we shut them out.

Where music thundered let the mind be still, Where the will triumphed let there be no will, What light revealed, now let the dark fulfill.

Old age is not an illness, it is a timeless ascent. As power diminishes, we grow toward the light.

Poetry finds its perilous equilibrium somewhere between music and speech.

Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?