If There Were No Girls Like Them

There Was A New Kind Of Strength In The Gravity Of Her Face, And Her Colors Still Gave Her That Look Of Deep-seated Health And Ardor.

The Land Belongs To The Future.

Desire Is Creation, Is The Magical Element In That Process. If There Were An Instrument By Which To Measure Desire, One Could Foretell Achievement.

One Cannot Divine Nor Forecast The Conditions That Will Make Happiness; One Only Stumbles Upon Them By Chance, In A Lucky Hour, At The World's End Somewhere, And Hold Fast To The Days.

Art, It Seems To Me, Should Simplify.