Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen.

We Live Only To Discover Beauty. All Else Is A Form Of Waiting

You Hate Jesus Because Someone From The North Country Said He Was The Son Of God. But You Hate One Another Because Each Of You Deems Himself Too Great To Be The Brother Of The Next Man.

He Who Has Not Looked On Sorrow Will Never See Joy. [for Without Sorrow How Would You Know What Joy Is? Contrast Provides Peceptive Clarity]

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

You Cannot Laugh And Be Unkind At The Same Time