Life Is More Complicated Than We Think,

The Memory Of Man Is As Old As Misfortune

Poetry Is What Happens When An Anxiety Meets A Technique.

Frost In January Minus 20 For A Week. Dead Birds Frozen On The Branch—they Fall With The First Thaw Like Ripe Fruit—death-ripened. We Shall All End Like Them—just A Stain In The Snow.

Try And Travel With The Eyes Of The Spirit Wide Open, And Not Too Much Factual Information. To Tune In, Without Reverence, Idly -- But With Real Inward Attention. It Is To Be Had For The Feeling, That Mysterious Sense Of Rapport, Of Identity With The Ground. You Can Extract The Essence Of A Place Once You Know How. If You Just Get As Still As A Needle You'll Be There.

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.