Do I find myself somewhere among the pages I've spilled ink on or when my words demand the freedom to return to their sources?

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What kind of hearts cannot survive the threshold of pain, those that know love or those that know love's illusion?

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Do the tears you weep cancel out the sorrow you provoke and is laughter an ancient echo doing its rounds from generation to generation?

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If a grain of rice contains a hundred beads of sweat, should we not determine price in units of labour expended?

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If a thesaurus chose to play with a copy-writer, how would the organs be re-organised?

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Do keyboards have a preference for certain fingertips and do computers prefer user-friendly users?

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If the grape is made of wine; am I made of you?

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