Love is illiterate. Whether we write it big or small, we cannot read it. We might only guess. ( "I seek you" )

What a wonderful world it could be, when spiritual factions would choose to read sacred writings as colorful metaphors and not as bloody declarations of war. (“Is heaven a place in the sky?”)

If we expect to “know” the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, we may have a hard time seeing the whole picture, since the truth is a willful construction that allows us often merely to “guess”. ("Hinter der Mattscheibe")

When love gets on a slippery slope, unawareness or indifference might be the underpinning of disenchantment and falling out of love. (“Amour en friche”)

I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot.

It is so simple and easy to hate and so grueling and hard to love, when the emotional “love forever”- revelation has become a crumbling “love never, ever again”- crack-up. There is no route back to a paradise lost, when the bonds of trust have, irrevocably, been blasted. ("Another empty room")