Art Is The Means We Have Of

Live In A Perpetual Great Astonishment.

May My Silences Become More Accurate.

Love Begets Love. This Torment Is My Joy.

In Our Age, If A Boy Or Girl Is Untalented, The Odds Are In Favor Of Their Thinking They Want To Write.

The Fields Stretch Out In Long Unbroken Rows. We Walk Aware Of What Is Far And Close. Here Distance Is Familiar As A Friend. The Feud We Kept With Space Comes To An End.