Breathe-in experience, breathe-out poetry.

I remember mother saying : Inventors are like poets, a trashy lot

The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.

One writes in order to feel.

However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be whole.

I speak to you. You speak to me. Is that fragile?

I think there is a choice possible to us at any moment, as long as we live. But there is no sacrifice. There is a choice, and the rest falls away. Second choice does not exist. Beware of those who talk about sacrifice.