All forms of landscape are autobiographical.

It's linkage I'm talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past.

It may not be written in any book, but it is written - You can't go back, you can't repeat the unrepeatable.

The music of memory has its own pitch,/which not everyone hears.

It’s up there, and you can see the front of it. But what it is isn’t what you’re looking at. It’s behind what you’re looking at.

What makes us leave what we love best? What is it inside us that keeps erasing itself When we need it most, That sends us into uncertainty for its own sake And holds us flush there until we begin to love it And have to begin again? What is it within our own lives we decline to live Whenever we find it, making our days unendurable, And nights almost visionless? I still don't know yet, but I do it.

Our dreams are luminous, a cast fire upon the world. Morning arrives and that's it. Sunlight darkens the earth.