Andrew > Andrew's Quotes

“Marcie: I know you’re still wounded. Danny, you have to let it go. That is what this mind game is all about, discovering who we are.
      Humans lie to themselves all the time. There should be no disgrace in being human, that is what I believe.”
― Andrew Neff, The Mind Game Company: The Players

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
― T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

“Words are only containers like a canvas holds a painting.

What’s in the essence of the words you convey through the sound of your voice?”
― Andrew Neff, The Mind Game Company: The Players

“Marcie: Neurons that play together stay together, that is how we make connections.
Danny: You want to play on my neural network? Are you sending me a modulation signal?”
― Andrew Neff, The Mind Game Company: The Players

“Graffiti is one of the few tools you have if you have almost nothing. And even if you don't come up with a picture to cure world poverty you can make someone smile while they're having a piss.”
― Banksy, Banging Your Head Against a Brick Wall

“A morning-flowered dalliance
demured and dulcet-sweet
with ebullience and efflorescence
admiring, cozy cottages
and elixirs of eloquence
lie waiting at our feet -

We'll dance through fetching pleasantries
as we walk ephemeral roads
evocative epiphanies
ethereal, though we know
our hearts are linked with gossamer
halcyon our day
a harbinger of pretty things
infused with whispers longing still
and gamboling in sultry ways
to feelings, all ineffable
screaming with insouciance
masking labyrinthine paths

where, in our nonchalance, we walk
through the lilt of love’s new morning rays.

Mellifluous murmurings
from a babbling brook
that soothes our heated passion-songs
and panoplies perplexed with thought
of shadows carried off with clouds
in stormy summer rains…

My dear, and that I can call you 'dear'
after ripples turned to crashing waves
after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained
we find our palace sunned and rayed
with quintessential moments lit
with wildflower lanterns arrayed
on verandahs lush with mutual love,
the softest love – our preferred décor

of life's lilly-blossom gate

in white-fenced serendipity…

Twilight sunlit heavens cross

our gardens, graced with perseverance,
bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate
as a morning dove of charm and mirth –
at least with me; our misty mornings
glide through air...


So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry -
of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven
in chandliers of winglet cherubs
wrought with time immemorial,
crafted with innocence, stowed away
and brought to light upon our day
in hallelujah tapestries
of ocean-windswept galleries
in breaths of ballet kisses, light,
skipping to the breakfast room
cascading chrysalis's love
in diaphanous imaginings
delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed
as in our eyes which come to rest
evocative, exuberant
on one another’s moon-stowed dreams
idyllic, in quiescent ways,
peaceful in their radiance
resplendent with a myriad of thought

soothing muse, rhapsodic song
until the somnolence of night
spreads out again its shaded truss
of luminescent fantasies
waiting to be loved by us…

Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged!
I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear,
and on and on and on and on -
as if our hours were endless here…

A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips
exalting transcendent minds
suffused with sunrise symphonies
organic-born tranquilities
sublimed sonorous assemblages
with scintillas of eternity beating

at our breasts – their embraces but

a blushing, longing glance away…

I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn'
before cacophony and chafe
coarse in crude and rough abrade
when cynical distrust is laid
by hoarse and leeching parasites,
distaste fraught with smug disgust
by hairy, smelly maladroit

mediocrities born of poisoned wells

grotesque with selfish lies -

shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping

around our love, as if they rose

from Edgar Allen’s own immortal

rumpled decomposing clothes…

Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry!
can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you

for so long, in my morning imaginings,

through these words, through this song -
‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat,"
but little treats do sometimes last

a little longer; and, oh, but oh,

but if I could, I surly would

keep you just a little longer tarrying here,

tarrying here with me this pleasant morn”
― Numi Who

“I wonder how many people I've looked at all my life and never seen.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.”
― Scott Adams

“Beauty

And a poet said, 'Speak to us of Beauty.' Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?
And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?
The aggrieved and the injured say, 'Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.' And the passionate say, 'Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.' The tired and the weary say, 'beauty is of soft whispering s. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.' But the restless say, 'We have heard her shouting among the mountains, And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.' At night the watchmen of the city say, 'Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.' And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, 'we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.' In winter say the snow-bound, 'She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.' And in the summer heat the reapers say, 'We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.' All these things have you said of beauty. Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied, And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth, But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted. It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears. It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw, But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight. People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror”
― Kahlil Gibran

“Don't touch me.
Don't you dare touch me.

Unless you plan on leaving
a story behind”
― Pavana पवन

“Oftentimes we call Life bitter names, but only when we ourselves are bitter and dark. And we deem her empty and unprofitable, but only when the soul goes wandering in desolate places, and the heart is drunken with overmindfulness of self.

Life is deep and high and distant; and though only your vast vision can reach even her feet, yet she is near; and though only the breath of your breath reaches her heart, the shadow of your shadow crosses her face, and the echo of your faintest cry becomes a spring and an autumn in her breast.

And life is veiled and hidden, even as your greater self is hidden and veiled. Yet when Life speaks, all the winds become words; and when she speaks again, the smiles upon your lips and the tears in your eyes turn also into words. When she sings, the deaf hear and are held; and when she comes walking, the sightless behold her and are amazed and follow her in wonder and astonishment.”
― Kahlil Gibran, The Garden of The Prophet

“The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.”
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

“Sometimes the better part of valor—and common sense—is saying, “I’ll pass.”
― Marshall Goldsmith, Triggers: Sparking positive change and making it last

“There are some that even beg for the Chamber," she could hear Isaar saying in the back of her mind. "Soft minded fools or broken souls that would rather live a fabricated existence than deal with reality.”
― Charles Hash, Nascent Decay

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave...when first we practice to deceive.”
― Walter Scott, Marmion