In My Productive Activity, Every Time A

I Want To Be As Though New-born, Knowing Nothing, Absolutely Nothing. Then I Want To Do Something Modest; To Work Out By Myself A Tiny, Formal Motive, One That My Pencil Will Be Able To Hold Without Technique.

I Want To Be As Though Newborn. To Be Almost Primitive.

My Mirror Probes Down To The Heart. I Write Words On The Forehead And Around The Corners Of The Mouth. My Human Faces Are Truer Than The Real Ones.

Frightened, I Jump Up From The Bank, The Struggle Begins Anew. Bitterness Has Returned. I Am Not Pan In The Reed, I Am Merely A Human Being And Want To Climb A Few Steps, But Really Climb Them.

The Way To Form Transcends Its Own Destination, Goes Beyond The End Of The Way Itself.