Reading Is A Pleasure, But To Finish

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

Until Only Infinity Remained Of Beauty

Life Is Not At All What You Might Think It To Be A Simple Tale Where Each Thing Has Its History It's Much More Than Its Scuffle And Anything Goes Both Evil And Good, Subject To The Same Laws.

The Soul Is Not A Soul, Has No Secret, Is Small, And It Fits Its Hollow Perfectly: Its Room, Our Moment Of Attention.