If Everything That Existed Were Continually Being

[o]ften Art Has Judged The Judges, Pleaded Revenge To The Innocent And Shown To The Future What The Past Suffered, So That It Has Never Been Forgotten. . . .

We Only See What We Look At. To Look Is An Act Of Choice.

My Heart Born Naked Was Swaddled In Lullabies. Later Alone It Wore Poems For Clothes. Like A Shirt I Carried On My Back The Poetry I Had Read. So I Lived For Half A Century Until Wordlessly We Met. From My Shirt On The Back Of The Chair I Learn Tonight How Many Years Of Learning By Heart I Waited For You.

We Who Draw Do So Not Only To Make Something Observed Visible To Others, But Also To Accompany Something Invisible To Its Incalculable Destination

When We Read A Story, We Inhabit It. The Covers Of The Book Are Like A Roof And Four Walls.