The Collector Walks With Blinders On; He

When One Is A Stranger To Oneself, Then One Is Estranged From Others, Too.

... Not Only Is Life Put In New Patterns From The Air, But It Is Somehow Arrested, Frozen Into Form. (the Leaping Hare Is Caught In A Marble Panel.) A Glaze Is Put Over Life. There Is No Flaw, No Crack In The Surface; A Still Reservoir, No Ripple On Its Face. Looking Down From The Air That Morning, I Felt That Stillness Rested Like A Light Over The Earth. The Waterfalls Seemed Frozen Solid; The Tops Of The Trees Were Still; The River Hardly Stirred, A Serpent Gently Moving Under Its Shimmering Skin.

The Shape Of My Life Is, Of Course, Determined By Many Things; My Background And Childhood, My Mind And Its Education, My Conscience And Its Pressures, My Heart And Its Desires.

The Punctuation Of Anniversaries Is Terrible, Like The Closing Of Doors, One After Another Between You And What You Want To Hold On To.

There Is No Aristocracy Of Grief. Grief Is A Great Leveler.