My clumsiness is valuable to me. I roam sideways, and mix things together, before I learn to separate them into streams. This muddleheaded mixing may appear to be incompetence; and many give it that name, and that is why so many of us are stymied so young.

They bury treaure in the mountains. Not desiring to attach a name to their understanding, they bury it and leave. Their treasures are like land mines, but they are also like gifts to strangers whose ancestors have yet to be born.

Resistance is the first thing we meet. We step back, wait, and often others come to us through the murk. The resistance melts away.

You are deluded, and do all kinds of things because you think they are important. Later, when you perceive that they are not important, you still do these things. You feel as if you may as well, as there is no reason not to. You find, as you continue, that there are many strange symmetrical pleasures that bloom in the garden of delusional acts.

Time travels backwards, sweeping our work into the horizon and beyond view. We search the present for mementos, anchors via which we think we can follow the chain into the past; and we call this history.

I met my muse in her middle-aged, no-nonsense aspect, in her late forties, an age where wise men and women begin to resemble each other. 'I hesitate to give you advice...' she said, and appeared satisfied that I was not expecting her to finish the sentence. We walked together for a while, and she soon disappeared.

Think in cliches, my friends, and meaning will never trouble you again. You my safely join the rest of us, and our enemies will be plainly revealed.

Know your audience, they say; but in what way, and to what end? We should know our audience in order to corrupt them.