Language Is Power, Life And The Instrument

Spindly Branches Of Buttercups Were Secreted Among Gleaming Stems Still Moist At The Roots From Last Night's Rain That Had Washedand Refreshed The Entire Wood, Had Dowered It In Poignant Transparency, The Unique, Inconsolable Quality Of Rainy Countries, As If All Was Glimpsed Through Tears.

Do Not Think I Do Not Realise What I Am Doing. I Am Making A Composition Using The Following Elements: The Winter Beach; The Winter Moon; The Ocean; The Women; The Pine Trees; The Riders; The Driftwood; The Shells; The Shapes Of Darkness And The Shapes Of Water; And The Refuse. These Are All Inimical To My Loneliness Because Of Their Indifference To It. Out Of These Pieces Of Inimical Indifference, I Intend To Represent The Desolate Smile Of Winter Which, As You Must Have Gathered, Is The Smile I Wear.

To Pin Your Hopes Upon The Future Is To Consign Those Hopes To A Hypothesis, Which Is To Say, A Nothingness. Here And Now Is What We Must Contend With.

Nostalgia, The Vice Of The Aged. We Watch So Many Old Movies Our Memories Come In Monochrome.

Is Not This World An Illusion? And Yet It Fools Everybody.