As the tenor roars his passion, I think sadly of my spreading middle, and his.

No matter how close thought sticks to the actual, it follows its own rules.

Life is always rich, thought only occasionally so.

Thought maps existence; fantasy colors it.

Travelling carries me to the surface, away from the deeps of home-thoughts.

Thought enables us to see Fate coming.

To make a thought my own, I must think it often.

I feel that I have something significant to say, but I cannot think what it is.

By the time I have clarified a thought, I no longer want to think it.