How could I choose someone who would force me to give up my own small reach for meaning? I chose myself, and without consolation.

You have to find a mother inside yourself. We all do. Even if we already have a mother, we still have to find this part of ourselves inside

Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through. When I'm dead and gone, That's what I want from you. The streets of heaven are gold and sunny, But I'll stick with my plot and a pot of honey. Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through.

The world depends upon the small beating in your heart.

Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can't remember who we are or why we're here.

What's wrong with living in a dream world? You have to wake up.

Have you ever written a letter you knew you could never mail but you needed to write it anyway?