There is no born lover, There is no born Don Juan, For we are all lovers.
~ Dejan Stojanovic
Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.
He tries to find the exit from himself but there is no door.
Tell me something only you know and make a new friend.
There is a moonlight note in the Moonlight Sonata, there is a thunder note in an angry sky.
Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.
Trying too hard to be too good, even when trying to be bad, is too good for the bad, too bad for the good.
Even great men bow before the Sun, it melts hubris into humility.
Love is almost never simple.
A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.
They will smile, as they always do when they plan a major attack late in the night.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Is that all?
Although all days are equally long regardless of the season, some days are long not only seasonally but by rewards they offer.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
Nobility is not only in forgiveness.
Forget decorated generals, tell me about Private Ryan.
There are countless circles of hell, believers never penetrate the ninth circle.
For a moment at least, be a smile on someone else’s face.
Strangers are endearing because you don’t know them yet.
They blossomed, they did not talk about blossoming.
There are no winners in real games.
There are many secrets, don’t try to resolve them all.
Don’t pay attention to those who offer too much.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
The game itself is bigger than the winning.
If you are good, they say you are weak.
Beyond all vanities, fights, and desires, omnipotent silence lies.
We like to admit to only that which already glows, although it is nobler to support brightness before it glows, not afterwards.
If what we think of ourselves were true, the planet would overflow with geniuses.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
Christ did not ask or want to be what he was not.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?
Disease often comes with a smiling face.
All those big words produce disgust today.
Statesmen are grocers, ambitious clowns.
Your head is a lit chamber.
He confided his deepest secret to you, be always wary of his secret.
Either you will be you or you will not be at all.
Whatever others may say, they say it to deceive and comfort themselves, not help you.
A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.
