Wherever I go, I meet myself.

When the star dies, Its eye closes; tired of watching, It flies back to its first bright dream.

Dreams are our only geography—our native land.

The world cannot be translated; It can only be dreamed of and touched.

There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.

A hidden spark of the dream sleeps In the forest and waits In the celestial spheres of the brain.

Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.

Perfection seems sterile; it is final, no mystery in it; it's a product of an assembly line.

A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.