And you? Now that I have discovered you? Beautiful, dangerous, unleashed. Still I try to hold you, knowing that your body is faced with knives.

I don't own my emotions unless I can think about them. I am not afraid of feeling but I am afraid of feeling unthinkingly. I don't want to drown. My head is my heart's lifebelt.

She was fragile, gentle, wide awake in a sleeping world.

Perhaps it is worse when love has flowed freely to find it one day dammed.

Walk with me, memory to memory, the shared path, the mutual view. Walk with me. The past lies in wait. It is not behind. It seems to be in front. How else could it trip me as as I start to run?

Walk with me, memory to memory, the shared path, the mutual view. Walk with me. The past lies in wait. It is not behind. It seems to be in front. How else could it trip me as I start to run?

My grandmother whispering to herself, over and over, "David is in heaven now, David is in heaven now, ' my mind repeating Schrodinger's Cat, Schrodinger's Cat.

What is it that you contain? The dead, time, light patterns of millenia opening in your gut. What is salted up in the memory of you? Memory past and memory future.

If the universe is movement, it will not be in one direction only. We think of our lives as linear but it is the spin of the earth that allows us to observe time. Walk with me.

Rights begin where love ends. Shall we argue over who is the most to blame?

Today he became a killer, or else a corpse.

Are we just dreamingIn the city that never sleeps?Cause I can't be seeingWhat my eyes tell me.

I really don't have any idea about photography, but I take pictures.

Other crack teams get bat boomerangs and wall-climbing powers; we get Aquatruck.

The strong and virtuous admit no destiny.

It took me a long, long time to learn what I now know, and I don't want that to die with me.

I'm not intense at all. I'm always relaxed.

I could take care of that obstacle for her - I'd tear down anything standing between us - but I couldn't destroy what I couldn't even see.

In spite of recent trends towards fabricating photographic narratives, I find, more than ever, traditional photographic capture, the 'discovery' of found narratives, deeply compelling.

The Gita is the greatest gospel of spiritual works ever yet given to the race.