Poetry is our heart, our spirit, our soul. Call it whatever; without it, everything else is nothing but hardware.

To paraphrase the great poet Dante, the heavens swirl above us and our eyes are still cast to the ground.

Where you see valid achievements or virtue being attacked, it's by someone viewing them as a mirror of their own inadequacy instead of an inspiring beacon for excellence.

Money is only a human invention. I get paid for my work, it's a system of trade, but it's not my purpose and reason for living.

Ideals do exist, the rest is just temporary interruption.

The illusion is we are only physical.

Is it a form of social play that underneath the words people say, there is a different conversation going on?