Art, As Far As It Is Able,

That Which Had Pleased Me Once, Troubled By Spirit.

Here Pity Only Lives When It Is Dead - Virgil

In Each Fire There Is A Spirit; Each One Is Wrapped In What Is Burning Him.

Like The Lark That Soars In The Air, First Singing, Then Silent, Content With The Last Sweetness That Satiates It, Such Seemed To Me That Image, The Imprint Of The Eternal Pleasure.

He Who Awaits The Call, But Sees The Need, Already Sets His Spirit To Refuse It.