I See Myself Wrapped In Lies, Which

Self-destructive Patterns Cause As Much Suffering As Outer Catastrophes.

The Struggle To Emerge Out Of The Past, Clean Of Memories; The Inadequacy Of Our Hearts To Cut Life Into Separate And Final Portions; The Pain Of This Constant Ambivalence And Interrelation Of Emotions; The Hunger For Frontiers Against Which We Might Learn As Upon Closed Doors Before We Proceed Forward; The Struggle Against Diffusion, New Beginnings, Against Finality In Acts Without Finality Or End, In Our Cursedly Repercussive Being.

The Creative Personality Never Remains Fixed On The First World It Discovers. It Never Resigns Itself To Anything.

I Sleep With My Feet On Moss Carpets, My Branches In The Cotton Of The Clouds.

Stories Are The Only Enchantment Possible, For When We Begin To See Our Suffering As A Story, We Are Saved.