He Could Say Nothing. He Had No

You’ll Join Me Sooner Than You Know In A Place With . . . No Illusions, Where The Truth Is The Only Architecture, The Only Color, The Only Sound--where That Which We Sense Merely On Occasion, And Which Takes Us Up And Gives Us The Rare And Beautiful Glimpses Of The Things We Truly Love, Flows In Deep Rivers And Tumbles About Like Clouds In The Sky.

Perhaps Things Are Most Beautiful When They Are Not Quite Real; When You Look Upon A Scene As An Outsider, And Come To Possess It In Its Entirety And Forever; When You Live In The Present With The Lucidity And Feeling Of Memory; When, For Want Of Connection, The World Deepens And Becomes Art.

The Treasures Of The Earth Were Movement, Courage, Laughter And Love.

New Technologies Will Always Demand And Deserve Careful Navigation And Difficult Readjustments. But The Weakening Or De Facto Abolition Of Copyright Will Not Merely Roil The Seas, It Will Drain Them Dry. Those Who Would Pirate What You Produce Have Developed An Elaborate Sophistry To Convince You That They Are Your Victim. They Aren't. Fight Back.

Rigel, Betelgeuse, And Orion. There Was No Finer Church, No Finer Choir, Than The Stars Speaking In Silence To The Many Consumptives Silently Condemned, A Legion Upon The Dark Rooftops. The Wind Came Down From The North Like A Runner In Lacrosse, Violent And Hard, To Batter Every Living Thing. They Were There, Each One Alone In Conversation With The Stars, Mining Ephemeral Love From Cold And Distant Light.