The Bhagavad Gita – that ancient Indian Yogic text – says that it is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else's life with perfection.

I worry there is something broken in our generation, there are too many sad eyes on happy faces.

A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

And that's the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.

I think... if it is true that there are as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts.

The question isn't whether magic is real. It's whether I can touch it without being consumed by it.