Always, Worlds Within Worlds.

We Each Die Countless Little Deaths On Our Way To The Last. We Die Out Of Shame As Humiliation. We Perish From Despair. And, Of Course, We Die For Love.

There Is No Such Thing As Originality. It Has All Been Said Before, Suffered Before. If A Person Knows That, Is It Any Wonder Love Becomes Mechanical And Death Just A Scene To Be Shunned? There Is No Absolute Knowledge To Be Gained From Either. Just Another Ride On The Merry-go-round, Another Blurred Scene Of Faces Smiling And Faces Grieved.

There Must Still Be Room For The Falling Note, Of Course. Even In An Undying World There Are Times When Beauty Passes From Sight, Or Love Passes From The Heart, And We Feel The Sorrow Of Partition.

Never Believe Your Eyes

That Which Is Imagined Can Never Be Lost.