Be like the sun who fell in love with the moon and shared all his light.

For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something — distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world — but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.

Art doesn’t give rise to anything in us that isn’t already there. It simply stirs our curious consciousness and sparks a fire that illuminates who we have always wanted to be.

I spent all nightweaving a poem for you to wear. You look so beautifulwhen you wear my light.

There is no shortage of beautiful people in this world. What use is your beauty to me? Your beautiful hair, your beautiful eyes and legs? I will only speak of your beauty if your beautiful soul shines light on it, for I am blind to that other beauty. What use is your hair, eyes, and legs to me when I am the seeking the light within.