“Can I write you into existence?”

The ‘kind’ in mankind. Show me that.

Nostalgia is a box of forget me nots.

In light of recent events can you tell me where to find the light?

Music is a different kind of intimacy. So is poetry.

I wonder if you’re thinking of me like I’m thinking of you.

Feelings you could never explain. That’s what poetry is.

Silence is a form of poetry.

The best way to be misunderstood is to care too much.

I’m tired of looking for love in people. I now get my fill from nature.

The loudest voices are often the ones that aren’t heard.

Nostalgia seems to haunt me these days I wonder if it’s old age or just a phase.

You feel like the moonlight, mysteriously dark its blinding.

Poetry, music, and silence.

I’ve chased after sunsets too many times to know how precious time is.

You complete me.

Do not tell me how to feel just because you can’t understand.

To write that essential book, a great writer does not need to invent it but merely to translate it, since it already exists in each one of us. The duty and task of a writer are those of translator.

The bonds that unite another person to our self exist only in our mind.

Only within yourself exists that other reality for which you long.

The proletariat uses the State not in the interests of freedom but in order to hold down its adversaries, and as soon as it becomes possible to speak of freedom the State as such ceases to exist.

There never will exist anything permanently noble and excellent in the character which is a stranger to resolute self-denial.

He who would do good to another must do it in Minute Particulars; General Good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite and flatterer: For Art and Science cannot exist but in minutely organized Particulars.

Everybody has a light and a dark side, and neither can exist without the other.

But one must do something about the past. It doesn’t just cease to be. It goes on existing and affecting the present, and in new and different ways, as if in some other dimension it too were growing.