Knowing that conscious decisions and personal memory are much too small a place to live, every human being streams at night into the loving nowhere, or during the day, in some absorbing work.

You run back and forth listening for unusual events, peering into the faces of travelers. "Why are you looking at me like a madman?" I have lost a friend. Please forgive me.

I am the glorious sun, the ocean laden with pearls. Within my heart is the grandeur of heaven.

We can't help being thirsty, moving toward the voice of water.

Everyone has been made for some particular work, and the desire for that work has been put in every heart.

Without the frown of clouds and lightning, the vines would be burned by the smiling sun.

What is the heart? It is not human and it is not imaginary. I call it you.