Let Me Be, Was All I Wanted.

Writing, Like Life Itself, Is A Voyage Of Discovery.

Until It Is Kindled By A Spirit As Flamingly Alive As The One Which Gave It Birth A Book Is Dead To Us. Words Divested Of Their Magic Are But Dead Hieroglyphs.

Words, Sentences, Ideas, No Matter How Subtle Or Ingenious, The Maddest Flights Of Poetry, The Most Profound Dreams, The Most Hallucinating Visions, Are But Crude Hieroglyphs Chiseled In Pain And Sorrow To Commemorate An Event Which Is Untransmissible.

If One Believes, Then Miracles Occur.

Confusion Is A Word We Have Invented For An Order Which Is Not Understood.