We Live Equally Out Of Our Bodies

I, For Instance, Regard Any Particular Man As Finite, As One Who Has Had A Beginning And Who Will Have An End. He Has Been Born, And He Is Going To Die. In The Meantime, He Has A Body That Roots Him To This Time And This Place.

If You Have Passion For What You Do, The Company You Keep, The Life You Live, It Will Be Reflected In Whatever You Create. Passion Is Like That; It Springs Out, Jumps, Unpredictable And Unplanned, Into Everything We Touch. If It Doesn't, Others Know. Passion Can't Be Faked And It Can't Be Manufactured. Which Is Why It Is So Priceless.

If I Hazard A Guess As To The Most Endemic, Prevalent Anxiety Among Human Beings-including Fear Of Death, Abandonment, Loneliness-nothing Is More Prevalent Than The Fear Of One Another.

Our Civilization Represses Not Only "the Instincts", Not Only Sexuality, But Any Form Of Transcendence. Among One-dimensional Men, It Is Not Surprising That Someone With An Insistent Experience Of Other Dimensions, That He Cannot Entirely Deny Or Forget, Will Run The Risk Either Of Being Destroyed By The Others, Or Of Betraying What He Knows.

How Do We Define, How Do We Describe, How Do We Explain And/or Understand Ourselves? What Sort Of Creatures Do We Take Ourselves To Be? What Are We? Who Are We? Why Are We? How Do We Come To Be What Or Who We Are Or Take Ourselves To Be? How Do We Give An Account Of Ourselves? How Do We Account For Ourselves, Our Actions, Interactions, Transactions (praxis), Our Biologic Processes? Our Specific Human Existence?