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

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.

Sometimes I get my youth confused with age.

Give me love and I’ll show you unconditional.

I miss you even in my dreams.

Love, if true, stays when all else is gone.

Regret is a time travel in a world where time only moves forward.

Can I write you into existence?

He is a friend. A different kind of lover.

The ‘almost’ kinda love never makes it.

We are God’s gift to each other. Like a master composer, He brings all the instruments together, each with a different tone, each playing a different part, and He makes it turn out so beautifully.

We are all different. Don’t judge, understand instead.

Under the most diverse conditions and disparate circumstances, we watch the development of the same phenomena—homelessness on an unprecedented scale, rootlessness to an unprecedented depth.

For being different, it’s easy. But to be unique, it’s a complicated thing.

There’s all the difference in the world between having something to say, and having to say something.

I was born and reborn continuously, different people draw different me.

Being is essentially different from a being, from beings.

Territory matters, and there is little difference between territorial rights and social status. It is often a matter of life and death.