They Lived And Laughed And Loved And

A Woman Loses A Charm With Every Pin She Takes Out.

Ineluctable Modality Of The Visible; At Least That If No More, Thought Through My Eyes. Signatures Of All Things I Am Here To Read.

Can't Bring Back Time. Like Holding Water In Your Hand.

The Object Of The Artist Is The Creation Of The Beautiful. What The Beautiful Is Is Another Question.

When The Short Days Of Winter Came, Dusk Fell Before We Had Well Eaten Our Dinners. When We Met In The Street The Houses Had Grown Sombre. The Space Of Sky Above Us Was The Colour Of Ever-changing Violet And Towards It The Lamps Of The Street Lifted Their Feeble Lanterns. The Cold Air Stung Us And We Played Till Our Bodies Glowed. Our Shouts Echoed In The Silent Street.