No map to help us find the tranquil flat lands, clearings calm, fields without mean fences. Rolling down the other side of life our compass is the sureness of ourselves. Time may make us rugged, ragged round the edges, but know and understand that love is still the safest place to land.

There's no misery in not being loved, only in not loving.

People often say 'I live for my art.' Bullshit! If you are given a talent it's to be used. It's not in the private domain.

We come into the world alone. We go away the same. We're meant to spend the interlude between in closeness or so we tell ourselves. But it's a long way from the morning to the evening.

The gifts that one receives for giving are so immeasurable that it is almost an injustice to accept them.

I cannot speculate on what our cluttered mind will save- sleepy Sundays, or a nosebleed after love. I know only the dying heart needs the nourishment of memory to live beyond too many winters.

and if the world breaks down, I'll be around.