We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity.

Let your hook always be cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish

A good character is the best tombstone.

Time and health are two precious assets that we dont recognize and appreciate until they have been depleted.

The world is only a battlefield for one's attention.

Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it