The White May Blossom Swooned Slowly Into

All A Work Of Art Can Do Is Present The Surface. I Can't Know The Insides Of People. I Know Very Little About The Inside Of Myself.

That's One Of The Many Things I Hate About Life, That It's A Hideously Cliched Business.

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

Life Is Tragic But It's Equally Comic.

We Carry The Dead With Us Only Until We Die Too, And Then It Is We Who Are Borne Along For A Little While, And Then Our Bearers In Their Turn Drop, And So On Into The Unimaginable Generations.