Money To A Writer Is Time To

The Future Remains Uncertain And So It Should, For It Is The Canvas Upon Which We Paint Our Desires. Thus Always The Human Condition Faces A Beautifully Empty Canvas. We Possess Only This Moment In Which To Dedicate Ourselves Continuously To The Sacred Presence Which We Share And Create.

Truth Suffers From Too Much Analysis.

No Matter How Much We Ask After The Truth, Self-awareness Is Often Unpleasant. We Do Not Feel Kindly Toward The Truthsayer.

If You Want Immortality, Then Deny Form. Whatever Has Form Has Mortality. Beyond Form Is The Formless, The Immortal.

The Willow Submits To The Wind And Prospers Until One Day It Is Many Willows - A Wall Against The Wind.