It Is Useless Either To Hate Or

After A Certain Number Of Years, Our Faces Become Our Biographies.

Awe Consumes Any Brand That Ignites It.

A Writer Is Dreamed And Transfigured Into Being By Spells, Wishes, Goldfish, Silhouettes Of Trees, Boxes Of Fairy Tales Dropped In The Mud, Uncles' And Cousins' Books, Tablets And Capsules And Powders...and Then One Day You Find Yourself Leaning Here, Writing On That Round Glass Table Salvaged From The Park View Pharmacy--writing This, An Impossibility, A Summary Of Who You Came To Be Where You Are Now, And Where, God Knows, Is That?

The Butterfly Lures Us Not Only Because He Is Beautiful, But Because He Is Transitory. The Caterpillar Is Uglier, But In Him We Can Regard The Better Joy Of Becoming.

Two Things Remain Irretrievable: Time And A First Impression.