A Mother Never Realizes That Her Children

I'll Do What Little I Can In Writing. Only It Will Be Very Little. I'm Not Capable Of It; And If I Were, You Would Not Go Near It At All. For If You Did, You Would Hardly Bear To Live

The Camera Seems To Me, Next To Unassisted And Weaponless Consciousness, The Central Instrument Of Our Time.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

The Goal Is The Same: Life Itself; And The Price Is The Same; Life Itself.

And No Matter What, There's Not One Thing In This World *or* The Next That We Can Do Or Hope Or Guess At Or Wish Or Pray That Can Change It Or Help It One Iota. Because Whatever Is, Is. That's All. And All There Is Now Is To Be Ready For It, Strong Enough For It, Whatever It May Be. That's All. That's All That Matters. It's All That Matters Because It's All That's Possible.