“Every time a person does something dishonest, he is in effect tossing a boomerang. How far out it will travel, no one knows. How great or how small a circle it will traverse, only time will tell. But it will, eventually it must, finally come swift and unseen around behind that person and deliver its never-failing and painful blow to the back of his neck.”

Everyone has their past locked up inside them like the pages of a book learned by heart and whose friends can only read the title.

Virginia Woolf

We asperges are numb with sorrow at violence, and with rage at the senselessness of this. But this sorrow and rage will not inflame us to seek retribution. We will never again be quite the same. But this will be our reply to violence: to make love and life more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before. And with each day we will commemorate that courage, and reaffirm the faith in the Triumph of the Mind.

Every man has a right over his own body and violence destroys lives that were full of promise; it ravages the fruits of human toil, and much besides.

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.

Cardinal on an apple tree, Credit to N.W

Le sol jonché de vieux chemins partiellement effacés, fausses pistes, chemins malencontreux se recouvrant les uns les autres de telle sorte qu’on appelle ce sol une escalade, montagne de laquelle du regard on domine l’horizon où on se jetterait de tout son long rien que pour le franchir. 

Nous ne cherchons rien, nous discutons derrière les murs du silence de l’esprit, nous avons de la place, nous répliquons à l’échos, seul nous discutons, nous ne cherchons rien. 

Tout est la même chose, l’Un, le début, ce dont on s’éloigne divisé. Le reste, un fond sans limite sur lequel les mouvements sont ceux d’un dormeur que le milieu métamorphose. 

L’horizon départage ciel et terre, sans être ni l’un ni l’autre, n’existe que dans le regard. Vide, essaim de centres éclairs entre chutes verticales.

Cloud plant that waters its own flower-Codex Seraphinianus.

Cactus don’t need to be watered. They survive in the desert. Who wants to be a cactus ?