Revision Is Its Own Reward.

The Hands Are The Heart's Messengers.

The Sea Is A Collector, Quick To Return A Rapacious Look.

Omissions Are Not Accidents.

One Writes Because One Has A Burning Desire To Objectify What It Is Indispensable To One's Happiness To Express.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.