The present is all we have for action, for living. Everything else is either historical or hypothetical. Immutable data and uncertain potentialities that can be learned from and planned for, but only in the present.

Evil is innate, I have found. Ignored or misunderstood, it develops insidiously, on its own.

Afraid of nightfall closing in; the lambent god lifts my run. Flying now on Icarus wings, cannot help but chase the Sun.

Reach down deep and draw a line. Continue thinking, walking tall. The problem's theirs, never mine. The insanity of it all.

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.