Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.
Truth is something which can't be told in a few words. Those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.
James P. Moran