It's hard, sometimes, when nothing's stopping you, to know what's stopping you.

Where hope would otherwise become hopelessness, it becomes faith.

The mind, as you age, Is an artist, it seems. Monet paints your mem’ries, Picasso your dreams.

No matter how you hurry, you will notice at the end of the day that you traveled at the speed of time.

The artist's talent sits uneasy as an object of public acclaim, having been so long an object of private despair.

What a snapshot is to your life, your life is to eternity, so wouldn't it be nice if eternity captured you smiling?

One learns to ignore criticism by first learning to ignore applause.