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Hands, are the most honest part of the human body |
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I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. |
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The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go |
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Everything touches me — I see too much, I hear too much |
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If you see beauty in something, don’t wait for others to agree. |
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Birds know themselves not to be at the center of anything |
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Don’t let your struggle become your identity |
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The people you love become ghosts inside of you |
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless |
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When you can’t control what’s happening |
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You're a dream. Like everything else |
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The way to love someone is to lightly run your finger |
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When I discover who I am, I’ll be free. |
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"Anytime you’re gonna grow, you’re gonna lose something |
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She had always wanted words, she loved them |
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Consider that you can see less than 1% |
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Scattered through the ordinary world there are books |
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He reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer |
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Close your eyes & imagine the best version of you possible |
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Whatever we call reality, it is revealed to us only through |
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We are meant to discover our authentic nature |
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We are dying from overthinking |
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Don't ask anyone not to leave |
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The meaning of life is just to be alive |
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I learned not to trust people; I learned not to believe |
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Slow dance barefoot with me in the kitchen |
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How many faces, how many bodies can you recognize |
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I believe that suffering is part of the narrative |
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Ultimately what you do is secondary |
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We will meet again in another life in another world |
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Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth |
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We’re neither pure; nor wise; nor good |
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We think we tell stories, but stories often tell us |
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Why do people love us? |
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It’s hard to wake from a nightmare |
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But here’s a little secret for you: no one is ever the same |
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This being human is a guest house |
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I think some people are just inexplicably bonded |
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I know now, after fifty years, that the finding/losing |
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Wherever you go, you meet part of your story |
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She was fascinated with words. |
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I realize the dust we return to is not the same dust |
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We are, as a species, addicted to story |
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Only a boring man will always want things to match |
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In a certain sense the past is far more real |
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Whatever happens in your life, no matter how troubling things |
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The trouble with most of us is that we would rather be |
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Life has no meaning. |