i am for other than for dancing measures.

"The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next."
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness

"It’s the price of rootlessness. Motion sickness. The only cure is to keep moving."
— Tony Kushner, Angels in America

"Yet all the time something nonrelated caused a queer sort of blurring-out of image. She couldn’t think and talk and see and be, all at the same instant. Hardly knowing that she WAS, she let go more than one half of Her."
— H.D., HERmione

"Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the danger of losing a sense of who you are."
— Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

"the foreign sun, it squints upon
a bed that is never mine
as friends and other strangers
from their fates try to resign"
— Bob Dylan, 'Gates of Eden'

"You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in."
— Adrienne Rich, 'Song'

"Ambivalence expands our options. It increases our freedom, to, to… tattoo. Our selves. If we wish to. To have a concept like ‘our selves’ or ‘my self.’ Which makes us more ambivalent and more free. Which drives us crazy, and makes us desperate to find non-ambivalent things like tattoos which for all their permanence and pain serve mainly as markers of how ambivalent and impermanent we are. Or feel we are."
— Tony Kushner, 'Terminating or Sonnet LXXV or "Lass meine Schmerzen nicht verloren sein" or Ambivalence'

"Tell me you believe the world is made of more than all its stupid, stubborn, small refusals, that anything, everything is still possible."
— Mary Szybist, ‘To Gabriela at the Donkey Sanctuary’

"We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away

It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability."
— Percy Bysshe Shelley, ‘Mutability’