One Knows Less About One's Own Destiny

Ideas Often Last But A Day; Feelings, Dreams Almost Forever.

I Felt The Vulnerability, The Fragility Of The Children Of The World, And How It Was, Nonetheless, On Their Frail Shoulders That We Loaded The Weight Of Our Weary Hopes And Eternal New Beginnings.

Curiosity Ran Unchecked Through Him, Like The Wind Outside Through The Deserted Streets, Along The Canal, Around The Little Wooden Houses, Everywhere, As Far As The Mountain.

Every Life Is A Tragedy, But Far More The Writer's Life, Because The More He Has To See, The More Deeply He Understands And Feels About Life, The Less Time He Has To Put It Down.

Could We Ever Know Each Other In The Slightest Without The Arts?