Events, time, forms, all propel the inner plot within each of us.
My body is an avatar.
Mediocrity inspires neither great love nor hate.
High finance trembles in its boots whenever there is some political complication.
It's weird how people who are the least close to me or who've never even met me purport to be experts on the real me; and then, sadly, there are those who could be in touch with me but prefer to gossip with strangers about me instead.
Thought has no gender.