All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know
Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you.
What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you.
What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?
What's lightly hid is deepest understood.
Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.