The "i" In Me, My Friend, Dwells

Your Soul Is Oftentimes A Battlefield, Upon Your Reason And Your Judgment Wage War Against Your Passion And Your Appetite.

I Want Every Image To Be The Beginning Of An Unseen Image.

Miserable Is The Man Who Loves A Woman And Takes Her For His Wife, Pouring At Her Feet The Sweat Of His Skin And The Blood Of His Body And The Life Of His Heart, And Placing Her In The Hands Of The Fruit Of His Toil And The Revenue Of His Diligence; For When He Slowly Wakes Up, He Finds That The Heart That He Endeavored To Buy Is Given Away Freely And In Sincerity To Another Man For The Enjoyment Of Its Hidden Secrets And Deepest Love.

Be Like The Flower, Turn Your Faces To The Sun.

Verily All Things Move Within Your Being In Constant Half Embrace, The Desired And The Dreaded, The Repugnant And The Cherished, The Pursued And That Which You Would Escape.