The Characteristic Of Scientific Progress Is Our

The Spoken Reverie Of Substances Calls Matter To Birth, To Life, To Spirituality.

We Comfort Ourselves By Reliving Memories Of Protection. Something Closed Must Retain Our Memories, While Leaving Them Their Original Value As Images. Memories Of The Outside World Will Never Have The Same Tonality As Those Of Home And, By Recalling These Memories, We Add To Our Store Of Dreams; We Are Never Real Historians, But Always Near Poets, And Our Emotion Is Perhaps Nothing But An Expression Of A Poetry That Was Lost.

It Is Through The Intentionality Of Poetic Imagination That The Poet's Soul Discovers The Opening Of Consciousness Common To All True Poetry.

It Is A Poor Reverie Which Invites A Nap. One Must Even Wonder Whether, In This "failing Asleep", The Subconscious Itself Does Not Undergo A Decline In Being.

The Repose Of Sleep Refreshes Only The Body. It Rarely Sets The Soul At Rest.