I want to be silverly beautiful.

I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.

As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.