We Are All Burning In Time, But

The Heart Lies To Itself Because It Must.

What We Feel Most Has No Name But Amber, Archers, Cinnamon, Horses And Birds.

When I Was Walking In The Mountains With The Japanese Man And Began To Hear The Water, He Said, 'what Is The Sound Of The Waterfall?' 'silence,' He Finally Told Me.

The Woman Is Not Just A Pleasure, Nor Even A Problem. She Is A Meniscus That Allows The Absolute To Have A Shape, That Lets Him Skate However Briefly On The Mystery, Her Presence Luminous On The Ordinary And The Grand. Like The Odor At Night In Pittsburgh’s Empty Streets After Summer Rain On Maples And Sycamore.

Question The Bravery. Say It's Not Courage. Call It A Passion.