“There is ebb and flow. Leaving and coming. Flight and fall. Sing and silent. Reaching and reached.”

“The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.”

“The objective level is not words, and cannot be reached by words alone. We must point our finger and be silent, or we will never reach this level.”

“On the road to your target, move cleverly and silently; when you reached your target, be humble and silent!”

“Rise & set, ebb & flow; the rhythms of our world.”

“There’s no point in fighting the tide. It ebbs. It flows. You ride it.”