He Thought About Himself And To The

The Disease We All Have And That We Have To Fight Against All Our Lives Is ... The Disease Of Self.

The Machines Men Are So Intent On Making Have Carried Them Very Far From The Old Sweet Things.

The Eighteen Years He Has Lived Seem But A Moment, A Breathing Space In The Long March Of Humanity. Already He Hears Death Calling. With All His Heart He Wants To Come Close To Some Other Human, Touch Someone With His Hands, Be Touched By The Hand Of Another.

You Won’t Arrive. It Is An Endless Search.

Most People Are Afraid To Trust Their Imaginations And The Artist Is Not.