It Will In The End, Be Admitted

All My Life, My Heart Has Yearned For A Thing I Cannot Name.

I Believe In The Pure Surrealist Joy Of The Man Who, Forewarned That All Others Before Him Have Failed, Refused To Admit Defeat, Sets Off From Watever Point He Chooses, Along Any Other Pat Save A Reasonable One, And Arrives Wherever He Can.

A Work Of Art Has Value Only If Tremors Of The Future Run Through It.

...with The End Of My Breath, Which Is The Beginning Of Yours.

Everything Tends To Make Us Believe That There Exists A Certain Point Of The Mind At Which Life And Death, The Real And The Imagined, Past And Future, The Communicable And The Incommunicable, High And Low, Cease To Be Perceived As Contradictions.