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.

I find it all too easy to overlook the good things. I suppose this is common, but I don't wish to be common.

I’m grateful for the little things you do for me. Not to show me you love me, rather, because you love me.

A goal without a plan is a dream. A goal without a backup plan is a wager.