Be Young Forever, Seasons Of The Earth.

He Returns Years Later, Has No Demands. He Wants Only One, Most Precious Thing: To See, Purely And Simply, Without Name, Without Expectations, Fears, Or Hopes, At The Edge Where There Is No I Or Not-i.

The Soul Exceeds Its Circumstances.

From Life, From The Apple Cut By The Flaming Knife, What Grain Will Be Saved? My Son, Believe Me, Nothing Remains, Only Adult Toil, The Furrow Of Fate In The Palm. Only Toil, Nothing More.

Yet Falling In Love Is Not The Same As Being Able To Love.

I Am Composed Of Contradictions, Which Is Why Poetry Is A Better Form For Me Than Philosophy