Consider Incompleteness As A Verb.

Time Isn't Made Of Anything. It Is An Abstraction. Just A Meaning That We Impose Upon Motion.

Love Dares The Self To Leave Itself Behind, To Enter Into Poverty.

I Am Kind Of A Curmudgeonly Person, So I Don't Gravitate To Groups Or Traditions, Which Is Probably Just Pretentious Of Me.

Now Every Mortal Has Pain And Sweat Is Constant, But If There Is Anything Dearer Than Being Alive, It's Dark To Me. We Humans Seem Disastrously In Love With This Thing (whatever It Is) That Glitters On The Earth-- We Call It Life. We Know No Other. The Underworld's A Blank And All The Rest Just Fantasy.

I Do Think I Have An Ability To Record Sensual And Emotional Facts And Factoids, To Construct A Convincing Surface Of What Life Feels Like, Both Physical Life And Emotional Life.