My power grew angry that it was confined to my petite frame and pulled against my taut skin. Growing bolder, it tore through my skin to lay flat against my outer edge. The glowing energy...

The purest moment, tranquil hour of Earth’s expectancy. We lay on the soft rose sands beside the sleeping sea in happy land of fragrant meadows I dreamed a dream of. The whisper of the tide,...

Every frame and every scene has to have an intention.

Like creating a masterpiece, quitting is an art: you have to decide what to keep within the frame and what to keep out.

If a problem can’t be solved within the frame it was conceived, the solution lies in reframing the problem.

This is almost always the case: A piece of art receives its f(r)ame when found offensive.

It’s funny how the beauty of art has so much more to do with the frame than the artwork itself.

Great gains come from setting one’s brains into the right frames of thinking

I am a single drop of blood trying to mix in with billions of red paint splatters in this Pollack painting called life. I think the cops are trying to frame me.