Your Dreams Will Betray You. Go Nowhere

The Bitterness Of Joy Lies In The Knowledge That Is Cannot Last. Nor Should Joy Last Beyond A Certain Season, For, After That Season, Even Joy Would Become Merely Habit.

I Think Of Myself As A Storyteller, And That Is It.

Men Are Not The Causers Of History. History Itself, By A Pressure Of Events, Causes Men To Resort To Particular Actions.

The Soul Is A Magician. Only Living Flesh Hampers It.

How Massively The Mountains Stand, While Low To The Ground The Sand Blows. The Sand Blows On And On. And Then There Are No Mountains, None At All, The Sand Has Kissed And Whispered Them Away. And Still, The Sand Blows On.