His Life Rushes Onward In Such Torrential

If You Can't Create, You Destroy.

The Complaints Of The Child In Us Will Never Cease Lamenting Until It Is Consoled, Answered, Understood. Only Then Will It Lie Still In Us, Like Our Fears. It Will Die In Peace And Leave Us What The Child Leaves To The Man - The Sense Of Wonder.

Life Is A Process Of Becoming, A Combination Of States We Have To Go Through. Where People Fail Is That They Wish To Elect A State And Remain In It. This Is A Kind Of Death.

Gold Never Comes To The Dreamers - Except In Dreams.

I Sleep With My Feet On Moss Carpets, My Branches In The Cotton Of The Clouds.