The Past, the Future, O dear, is from you; you should regard both these as one.

My heart is so small it's almost invisible. How can You place such big sorrows in it? "Look," He answered, "your eyes are even smaller, yet they behold the world.

You’re a song, a wished-for song.

You must lance an ulcer to heal it. You must tear down parts of an old building to restore it, and so it is with a sensual life that has no spirit in it.

God picks up the reed-flute world and blows. Each note is a need coming through one of us, a passion, a longing pain. Remember the lips where the wind-breath originated, and let your note be clear. Don't try to end it. Be your note.

O Beloved, where is the Beloved?

I've said before that every craftsman searches for what's not there to practice his craft.