To Love Is To Undress Our Names.

Mineral Cactai, Quicksilver Lizards In The Adobe Walls, The Bird That Punctures Space, Thirst, Tedium, Clouds Of Dust, Impalpable Epiphanies Of Wind. The Pines Taught Me To Talk To Myself. In That Garden I Learnedto Send Myself Off. Later There Were No Gardens.

We Pursue Modernity In Her Incessant Metamorphoses Yet We Never Manage To Trap Her. She Always Escapes: Each Encounter Ends In Flight. We Embrace Her And She Disappears Immediately: It Was Just A Little Air. It Is The Instant, That Bird That Is Everywhere And Nowhere. We Want To Trap It Alive But It Flaps Its Wings And Vanishes In The Form Of A Handful Of Syllables. We Are Left Empty-handed. Then The Doors Of Perception Open Slightly And The Other Time Appears, The Real One We Were Searching For Without Knowing It: The Present, The Presence.

It Is Always Difficult To Give Oneself Up; Few Persons Anywhere Ever Succeed In Doing So, And Even Fewer Transcend The Possessive Stage To Know Love For What It Actually Is: A Perpetual Discovery, And Immersion In The Waters Of Reality, An Unending Re-creation.

The Ideal Of A Single Civilization For Everyone, Implicit In The Cult Of Progress And Technique, Impoverishes And Mutilates Us

By Suppressing Differences And Peculiarities, By Eliminating Different Civilizations And Cultures, Progress Weakens Life And Favors Death