We call interconnected order beautiful. When interrupted, we call it chaos.

I'm in love with the whole world.

The true poem rests between the words.

A cure for War? Furiously spending the same daily amount of money toward making friends. Being an indispensable source of food, shelter, peace, and cultural support dedicatedly spending 9 billion dollars a month on helping people would be a formidable enemy of evil.

The primary dues a writer or any artist pays is to remain sentient, and to forfeit the illusionary luxury of such anesthetics as avoidance, numbness, and denials.

The illusion is we are only physical.

Don't count your check-ins before they cash.