How Slow Life Is, How Violent Hope

Color Is The Fruit Of Life.

In This Mirror, I Am Enclosed A Live And Real As You. Imagine Angels And Not Like The Reflections.

I Hate Artists Who Are Not Of Their Time.

Without Artists, The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish.

Memories Are Hunting Horns Whose Sound Dies On The Wind.