Wrote with Love is a garden. it is every flower and blade of grass growing in that garden, every worm, man and ram living in that garden and it is the last words of every life that has ended in the shade of its trees. It is the print left by the hand of countless visitors
Tuesday, June 9
Be what you wish to see.
The irony remains that we imprisoned by our own search for freedom. Your eyes nor your hands will ever hold what you seek. Perhaps the key is to be what you are spending your life searching for.
