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.

Events, time, forms, all propel the inner plot within each of us.

If you were the sky, I would unfurl myself in you, as a rainbow of colors yet unseen. I would become oceans of stars in your night.

There is only now. And look! How rich we are in it!

My body is the fruit of spirits' play.

Space is as infinite as we can imagine, and expanding this perspective is what adjusts humankind's focus on conquering our true enemies, the formidable foes: ignorance and limitation.

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.