During The Act Of Writing I Have

The More You Respect And Focus On The Singular And The Strange, The More You Become Aware Of The Universal And Infinite.

There Are Two Kinds Of People. One Kind, You Can Just Tell By Looking At Them At What Point They Congealed Into Their Final Selves. It Might Be A Very Nice Self, But You Know You Can Expect No More Surprises From It. Whereas, The Other Kind Keep Moving, Changing... They Are Fluid. They Keep Moving Forward And Making New Trysts With Life, And The Motion Of It Keeps Them Young. In My Opinion, They Are The Only People Who Are Still Alive. You Must Be Constantly On Your Guard Against Congealing.

How Easy It Was To Make People Happy, When You Didn't Want Or Need Anything From Them.

Dreams Say What They Mean, But They Don't Say It In Daytime Language.

Who Wanted To Creep Along In Comfort When There Was One Chance In A Thousand Of Flying?