I was struck by an awful thought, the kind that cannot be taken back once it escapes into the open air of consciousness; it seemed to me that this was not a place you go to live. It was a place you go to die.

When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

There is no such thing as escape after all, only an exchange of one set of difficulties for another. It wasn't Mark or the farm or marriage I was trying to shake loose from but my own imperfect self, and even if I kept moving, she would dog me all the way around the world, forever.

For every thinking and reflecting man the existence of evil is a riddle he cannot escape.

Sometimes we go along, thinking"Ah, this is it - this is what true peace feels like_" Then, in a moment of grace, something shifts in our hearts, and in awestruck wonder, we whisper, "oh my, I just didn't know there could more...

Come and discover a love you don't have to work for.