A fierce unrest seethes at the core Of all existing things: It was the eager wish to soar That gave the gods their wings. . . . . There throbs through all the worlds that are This heart-beat not and strong, And shaken systems, star by star, Awake and glow in song.

For all of the creeds are false, and all of the creeds are true; And low at the shrines where my brothers bow, there will I bow too; For no form of a god, and no fashion Man has made in his desperate passion, But is worthy some worship of mine; Not too hot with a gross belief, Nor yet too cold with pride, I will bow me down where my brothers bow, Humble, but open eyed.

As the skull of the man grows broader, so do his creeds. And his gods they are shaped in his image and mirror his needs. And he clothes them with thunders and beauty, He clothes them with music and fire, Seeing not, as he bows by their altars, That he worships his own desire.

Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.

Fishing is a delusion entirely surrounded by liars in old clothes.

A sequel is an admission that you've been reduced to imitating yourself.