As the red hair falls down upon the floor beneath me, I offer them as a sacrifice to the Soil, to the Heritage of the Prophets, to the Hand.

With the body longing for its depths & its legacy, the Swimmer walked towards the Darkness ahead.

Venus at her toilette, Renoir's voluptuous bathers who merge into a singular existence with the dreamlike landscapes, Diana Bathing.

Love has sung the funeral hymns to our sorrowful Romance. And Love has sung the wedding hymns to our Eternal Union.

Only the Love that gazes upwards is the one that overcomes Death.

To reclaim the Unity, is to reclaim the Eden - hence the entry into our own Soul being the entry into Paradise.

She the eternal storyteller, the eternal power in its manifestation, and he becomes the one for who the story exists.

The more one listens, the more one becomes sensitive & responsive to the subtle, and the subtle is a peak to that which behind the veil.

The intellect lights up and reveals the beauty of the object we are looking at and our pleasure is in the beauty itself.

We may return with the knowledge that we just had a taste of God

A scent is never alone - it is inherently interactive.

Silent, rest & at peace, she trusts to recognise the one true pair of steps over a million of false one.

Give me a handful of hair, a fingertip of skin, so I may remember, so I may know something other than me.

The night permits and allows that which daylight forbids.

But who knows, maybe she will appear again and say: "Do go gentle into that good night."

When she is not a blissful silver light, wearing a blue robe, she bears a sword.

Lovers do not think of the Judge because the innocent and the pure do not go before judges.

Everything makes a sound - even a sleeping human makes one or two. It is everywhere, and the “leftover” of everything.

"What is sevdalinka?", the child’s answer would be "Well, that’s when dad’s singing, and he cries!”

He is her knowledge of herself, at the same time, she is his mirror through which he knows himself.