Good Poets Borrow, Great Poets Steal

With Out Some Kind Of God, Man Is Not Very Intresting

If You Do Not Push The Boundaries, You Will Never Know Where They Are.

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is, But Neither Arrest Nor Movement. And Do Not All It Fixity, Where Past And Future Are Gathered. Neither Movement From Nor Towards, Neither Ascent Nor Decline. Except For The Point, The Still Point, There Would Be No Dance, And There Is Only The Dance.

We Do Not Pass Twice Through The Same Door Or Return To The Door Through Which We Did Not Pass.

Desire Itself Is Movement Not In Itself Desirable; Love Is Itself Unmoving, Only The Cause And End Of Movement, Timeless, And Undesiring Except In The Aspect Of Time Caught In The Form Of Limitation Between Un-being And Being.