It Is Precisely The Way Which Is

An Active Line On A Walk, Moving Freely, Without Goal. A Walk For A Walk's Sake.

We Construct And Keep On Constructing, Yet Intuition Is Still A Good Thing.

My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

My Self . . . Is A Dramatic Ensemble. Here A Prophetic Ancestor Makes His Appearance. Here A Brutal Hero Shouts. Here An Alcoholic Bon Vivant Argues With A Learned Professor. Here A Lyric Muse, Chronically Love-struck, Raises Her Eyes To Heaven. Her Papa Steps Forward, Uttering Pedantic Protests. Here The Indulgent Uncle Intercedes. Here The Aunt Babbles Gossip. Here The Maid Giggles Lasciviously. And I Look Upon It All With Amazement, The Sharpened Pen In My Left Hand.

In Earlier Times Artists Liked To Show What Was Actually Visible... Nowadays We Are Concerned With Reality, Rather Than The Merely Visible.