I Sleep With My Feet On Moss

The Inner Chambers Of The Soul Are Like The Photographer's Darkroom. Like A Laboratory. One Cannot Stay There All The Time Or It Becomes The Solitary Cell Of The Neurotic.

The Suppression Of Inner Patterns In Favor Of Patterns Created By Society Is Dangerous To Us.

I'm Sick Of My Own Romanticism!

We Are Like Sculptors, Constantly Carving Out Of Others The Image We Long For, Need, Love Or Desire, Often Against Reality, Against Their Benefit, And Always, In The End, A Disappointment, Because It Does Not Fit Them.

The Self Is Merely The Lens Through Which We See Others And The World.