I have a horrible, chronic, and somewhat psychosomatic disease; every blank page harasses me, taunts me at every turn. Filled with no mercy or shame, they haunt.

You must accept, before you can conquer.

In moments of outrage, when we feebly seek vengeance, we can do one of two things with our newly kindled flames. We can burn those who inspired them, or we can burn away our weakness.

I long for the liberation of all people. Liberation from their selfish desires and cruel antics, their shallow livelihoods and deceiving addictions. That one day, they will want what is best for others, and not just themselves. That one day, they will learn to love all, as they so wished to be loved.

Perhaps this puzzle we're so desperately trying to build, has already been constructed, and we're mistakenly taking it apart, begging like savages for understanding.

Picasso had a saying - 'good artists copy, great artists steal' - and we have always been shameless about stealing great ideas.