Happenchance sparks with no matter who, waiting for love to arrive. To anyone, here I am, longing, as long as I am alive.

It is the present now and at noon yesterday, it was the present then. When noon tomorrow arrives, it will also be the present. The present is all there is.

Even the happiest fall prey to the plastic, the vacuous virtual. And some little voice keeps whispering to us 'There’s something wrong here.

I'm grasping for some sense of alacrity and the compulsion to perform in a broad way, before life's random curtain call retires me from this tired satire, this comically absurd play.

I harbor an unbridled ardor of life, an impassioned love for living. Not for being, for existence. Rather, a zeal for the Earth's entire spectrum of possibilities and experiences to choose from and to do.

Choosing to do nothing, or even the next best thing, because of apprehension or fear is a coward's failure. A craven dereliction.

Explaining true love is like conveying the sight of a sunrise to someone who’s always slept in.

The fates pay deference to the power of our love. Our disparate paths converge. I feel it.

A sorrow I feel, for beauty in distress. Delicate, bent and weeping. Assailed by hurt.