You left ground and sky weeping, mind and soul full of grief. No one can take your place in existence, or in absence. Both mourn, the angels, the prophets, and this sadness I feel has taken from me the taste of language, so that I cannot say the flavor of my being apart.

When someone beats a rug, the blows are not against the rug, but against the dust in it.

Like a sculptor, if necessary, carve a friend out of stone. Realize that your inner sight is blind and try to see a treasure in everyone.

Speak with the language of love.

You knock at the door of Reality. You shake your thought wings, loosen your shoulders, and open.

We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust.

I should be suspicious of what I want.