Every Book Is The Wreck Of A

My Heart Was Beating Like An Army On The March.

Art Is Brief. (not In A Temporal Sense.) [...] Words Are For Concealment. Art Is Concealment.

All Artists Dream Of A Silence Which They Must Enter, As Some Creatures Return To The Sea To Spawn.

A Long Marriage Is Very Unifying, Even If It's Not Ideal, And Those Old Structures Must Be Respected.

There Is No Beyond, There Is Only Here, The Infinitely Small, Infinitely Great And Utterly Demanding Present.