Man's hope can paint a purple picture, can transform a soaring vulture into a noble eagle or moaning dove.

So why do I write, torturing myself to put it down? Because in spite of myself I've learned some things. Without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled "file and forget," and I can neither file nor forget. Nor will certain ideas forget me; they keep filing away at my lethargy, my complacency. Why should I be the one to dream this nightmare?

The truth is the light and the light is the truth.

...and yet I am what they think I am.

I do not know if all cops are poets, but I know that all cops carry guns with triggers.

Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form...without light I am not only invisible but formless as well; and to be unaware of one's form is to live a death...the truth is the light and light is the truth.

Meaning grows in the mind, but the shape and form of the act remains.