Without ego I don't know how identity works, I don't know. . . I need to sit down and re-read some philosophy or something.
The night cometh when no man can work.
No murderer has eternal life abiding in him.
Our love should not be just words and talk; it must be true love, which shows itself in action.
God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him.
In this is love, not that we loved God but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.
My most treasured possessions are not things; they are only things, my friends, family and animals are what counts.
The dancer, or dancers, must transform the stage for the audience as well as for themselves into an autonomous, complete, virtual realm, and all motions into a play of visible forces in unbroken, virtual time. . . Both space and time, as perceptible factors, disappear almost entirely in the dance illusion.
There come a time, when good man must wear mask.
Does getting closer to the subject make the photograph more intimate? I'm sure it takes more than that. What comes next? The face, the nude? That's what I'd love to do. Who would even let me do that?
I am so used to hints and mixed messages, saying things that might mean what they sort of sound like they mean. Games and contests, roles and rituals, talking in twelve languages at once so the true words won't be so obvious. I am not used to a plainspoken, honest truth.